


Down and Out

by Railyard_Ghosts



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Abusive Parents, Brotherhood: Final Fantasy XV, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Family, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Gay Ignis Scientia, Good Dad Regis, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Prompto Argentum Is a Sweetheart, Recovery, Sharing a Bed, Supportive Regis Lucis Caelum, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unreliable Narrator, background regclar, established Gladnis, ignis's uncle is an asshole, promnis comfort, promptis pining, tags will change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:13:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27618880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Railyard_Ghosts/pseuds/Railyard_Ghosts
Summary: Insomnia falls, and Ignis does not as much as flinch. He says nothing about his Uncle or any other potential member of his family and neither does anyone else.Ever wonder why?
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia/Ignis Scientia, Ignis Scientia & Ignis Scientia's Uncle, Noctis Lucis Caelum & Regis Lucis Caelum, Prompto Argentum & Ignis Scientia, Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum, Regis Lucis Caelum & Ignis Scientia
Comments: 45
Kudos: 91





	1. The Test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buckle yourselves in, kids.
> 
> come squawk at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/railyard_ghosts).

Pride Day. 

No, Pride Weekend. 

Ignis read up a little bit on it a few years back when he was of a better age to understand what it meant. He became aware of how other boys talked about girls at 13, and became distinctly aware that breasts did not interest him at 14. At 15, he firmly knew that not only was he gay, Gladio was openly bisexual and Noctis probably was too. Well, maybe Noctis was not open about it, but Ignis knew, and he could certainly tell that Regis knew too. Why else would he be sure that Noctis’s schedule was clear for Pride Weekend several years in a row? 

Now in early adulthood, he was also aware of the weight that carried. It shouldn’t. That was the entire purpose of Pride. But royalty and nobility did not play by the same rules as the commoners, and the perfect House Scientia was not an exception. 

Not that his Uncle ever showed disdain for anyone that wasn’t heterosexual. Like many other aspects of their lives, it was something they just didn’t talk about. Truthfully, Ignis strongly suspected his Uncle didn’t like anyone nearly as much as he liked his work. Hell, they didn’t even eat meals together, but Ignis knew for a _fucking_ fact that even Regis, the King of all of _fucking_ Lucis, carved out time to spend casually with Noct, up to and including meals and boardgames. He knew, he’d seen it, he’d been there, he’d picked up the little colorful game pieces off the floor at the end of Mousetrap and Regis personally taught him how to shuffle cards, play Solitaire, and ate greasy pizza and crusty mozzarella sticks with them on board game night. 

But standing right beside him here, now, with no demands on their time, their presence, or their lives, his Uncle couldn’t even close his laptop. Graphs, charts, text in all languages in characters he couldn’t read glowed from the screen. The older man – a whole twelve years his senior – only removed his blazer after returning home to the Scientia Manor hours ago. Now it was close to midnight and he showed no signs of slowing down. It was five hours until he’d leave for the other end of the Crown City; two of which he’d need to go to sleep, wake back up, get dressed, and go, which only left three for sleep if he went now. 

Ignis cleared his throat. Green eyes darted his way. Had his Uncle been ignoring him? Or simply not realized he was standing there? 

“Yes, Ignis.” 

“I was asked to bring this to you.” Acknowledgement was as good as invitation; he closed in, steps measured until he was a respectful distance, and lowered the manila folder to the dining room table. The older Scientia had an amazing talent for digitizing his entire workflow (and demanded that everything coming his way be digitized), so there wasn’t even a mess of papers to disrupt on the dinner table they never ate at. He picked at it, neutral face breaking into something disgusted as if the presence of paper alone irked him. Fine-tipped fingers picked up corner and Ignis watched him hold up the corner up while peering inside. Like if he touched too long, something might burn him. 

But it was paper. Nothing more. 

“It’s a transcript of the King’s speech earlier today about Pride, as well as the public response,” Ignis explained. “Another will be broadcasted tomorrow morning. I was asked to distribute copies to everyone who might be interested.” 

He saw his Uncle’s lip twitch. “Ah,” he said, and let the folder fall closed again. He pushed it back towards his nephew. “I am not interested. Shred it.” 

Well, maybe there was one thing his Uncle loved more than his work, and it was the sound of a paper shredder. Ignis let himself frown as he reached for the folder but didn’t take it; he caught himself pausing. Waiting. Gathering up the nerves and guts and reaching for the words he’d practiced all day. 

“You don’t want to read it?” he asked instead. 

“Why would I?” His Uncle waved his hand, actively dismissing him as he would a maid. “Shred it already.” 

Ignis measured his breath. He counted, as if he were counting with Noct. As if they were playing hide and seek, and it was his turn to seek. As if they were stretching to touch their toes before bed. He counted as if the air did not leave his lungs and there wasn’t a familiar ache behind his eyes. He tamped the internal wave back down. 

“Yes, Uncle,” he said, still breathless, and took the folder back. “You should rest soon. Your car leaves in five hours.” 

“Mm.” 

Ignis left the room before his voice could betray him. Gladio was waiting outside, after all. 

* * *

“So didja tell him?” 

There were many things that Gladio was that he shouldn’t be that people just couldn’t wrap their heads around. First of all, he was always tall for his age and now he was just tall for a human. Second, he was incredibly well-read and liked trashy gas station romance novels as much as western dime backs and epic fantasy sagas. He’d even read a dictionary out of sheer boredom once. Third, he was also well-spoken, sociable, and easy to get along with. Last of all, he liked ‘anyone with a pulse’ (his words), and could afford to act on it too. Absolutely no one seemed to care that the son of the current Shield was more than happy to sow his seed in anyone that would let him. The paparazzi had a field day with it at first, but the rise in popularity of Pride and the shrug of the general population (royal and noble houses included) killed the attempted scandal pretty quickly. 

Ignis kept his shoulders back and head high when he walked to the car. But when the door closed and a physical barrier was established between him and his manor and his Uncle and Gladio asked that question so hopefully, something in him broke. He pulled off his glasses with one hand, pressed the other to his face, and tried to push back the ache in his eyes. 

The Scientias, proud of their perfection, did not cry. 

“No.” 

He meant to speak -- perfection did not mumble or whisper -- but all that came out as was a strained, breathy syllable, and Ignis swallowed hard. 

In the driver’s seat, Gladio’s face tightened into a frown. He kept looking for reasons to like Ignis’s Uncle, but not a single one appeared. There had to be something good about him. Not just a trait like being good at bowling or typing really fast, but something good for Ignis too. He thought this might’ve been it; there wasn’t any harm in being gay, right? That branch of their family tree was supposed to be pruned so it wasn’t like he was expected to get married and spawn. But no, something happened and he couldn’t even tell him he was gay and now he was crying too. Fuck, this was all his fault. Gladio grit his teeth and leaned up against the steering wheel, looking anywhere – everywhere that wasn’t Ignis crying in his passenger seat. 

“Iggy, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve pressured you.” 

“It’s all right,” Ignis said. His voice was still tight and weak. 

“It’s not all right!” Fuck, Gladio wanted to go in there and bust the guy’s nose open. “Goddamn it, Iggy, just—” He bit it off. Rubbed his face. Swallowed hard. Anger swelled in his chest, a telltale rush of heat rising up over his face from beneath his skin. Gladio rubbed his face again and forced himself to calm down, breathing in and out to the count of five just like Iggy taught him. ‘Breathe before you do something else stupid,’ he said. “So what happened?” 

It was Ignis’s turn to sigh. To pick up the edges that broke off. To straighten himself like a wrinkle in his suit. Gladio hated that he felt the need to be perfect even in front of him. He watched him rub his eyes again and replace his glasses, green eyes wet and red. 

“I did like we practiced. I put the folder on the table, he looked at, said he wasn’t interested, and told me to shred it.” 

Gladio stared and waited. He watched Ignis smooth his pants. 

“And then?” 

“And then I put it through the shredder.” 

“… that’s it?” 

He watched Ignis’s throat bob as he swallowed again. 

“That’s it.” 

… and still Gladio stared. 

He wanted to go into that manor himself, rip open the garbage, tape it all back together, and rub that stupid Uncle’s nose in it. ‘Don’t you see how much you’re hurting him?!’ he’d say. Then he’d bounce the bastard’s head off the table once for good measure, storm out the door and take Ignis home to his family instead and they’d get married, adopt a thousand dogs, and live happily ever fucking after. 

He jammed the keys into the ignition and started the car instead. 

“Where’s princess?” 

Ignis flicked his wrist to look at his watch, still blinking through the tears. “He should be leaving work soon.” 

“The Crown Prince of Lucis, working at some sushi restaurant on Friday night on Pride Weekend,” Gladio groused as he backed out of the driveway. “Let him know we’re coming. Movie night. I’ll pick up Prompto, pizza, and beer.” 

* * *

**Behemoth:** Chocobutt’s been pre-gaming. Picking up pizza now, back soon. 

**Charmless:** he better bring enough for the whole class 

**Behemoth:** Gotcha covered princess 

**Charmless:** bitchin 

Ignis heard his phone chiming on the table, but the ringtone told him it was only their groupchat. Noct took care of replying, blank-faced in comparison to his text, but held it up for Ignis to see the photo: Gladio and Prompto in the car, heads smooshed together to crowd into the frame. Gladio was grinning like he had a juicy secret and Prompto’s pupils were blown all the way open, whites turned red, and a goofy, uncoordinated smile split his elfish face in half. 

“Prompto got started without us,” Noct said. He waited for a reaction. For Ignis to start acting normal again. He’d never seen him shaken before, or … or anything other than infallible. It was downright disturbing how Gladio seemed to calling the shots when they picked him up from work and Ignis looked out the window without talking. 

“Well,” his retainer started, sounding breathless. “It is late. I imagine he expected to be alone for the evening.” 

Noct took the opportunity to look at him as he looked at the photo. His eyes didn’t look right either. Wet, slightly splotchy, green slightly brighter than usual. He’d cried plenty on Ignis in the last few years, but he never, ever saw Ignis even tear up. Not even in the gym or training grounds where it was a normal reaction to getting smacked on the nose or full-force hit in the nuts. Prompto was one of those people that couldn’t get angry without crying and Gladio never seemed to have a reason. Ignis though — it just … it didn’t seem fair. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt it. Absolutely nothing in all of Insomnia, Lucis, and Eos had the right to make Ignis cry. 

“Yeah,” he agreed blandly, lowering it to tap away. “Gladio said he’s bringing some with him.” 

“Very kind of him,” Ignis replied, equally low and equally bland. Equally … emotionless. 

Noctis frowned. Now he watched Ignis sink into the seat of his couch, slouching down until half his lower back was on the seat. The prince himself was sitting sideways with his knees up, half-comfortable and half-dressed in a long-sleeved shirt, old black jeans broken in in all the right places, and soft bamboo socks that fit just right. Ignis was still in his day clothes and hadn’t as much as unbuttoned his shirt or taken off his glasses. He was barefoot at least. Barefoot and still not looking at anything that Noct didn’t shove in his face. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Hm?” Now Ignis looked at him unbidden. 

“You’re not acting like yourself.” 

“Oh,” Ignis said as he sighed dismissively. “It was a long day is all.” 

“Specs, your entire life is long days. And you and Gladio don’t do movie night this suddenly and you don’t—” Noctis sucked in a breath, his chest suddenly tight as instinct rose to tell him _you’re saying too much_. But it was only Iggy, and Iggy never betrayed him before. “You don’t … act like this.” 

“My apologies, highness. I don’t mean to worry you.” 

Noct paused. He waited. He watched. Nothing changed. So he sat up, picked up the pillow from behind him, and launched it full force at Ignis’s head. 

“Stop it,” he hissed, and climbed to his knees without letting go, using the pillow to shove Ignis sideways on the couch and punched the cotton fluff between them. “Stop it stop it _stop it_ , stop calling me that and pretending you’re okay when you’re not and tell me what’s wrong and why Gladio’s picking up pizza and Prompto.” 

Despite the violence and anger on the other side of the pillow, Ignis found himself laughing. He didn’t want to laugh, but it happened anyway; he let Noctis hit him, shove him sideways and pound the pillow as if he was trying to beat the stress out of him, but he laughed. 

The truth was he wanted to cry. He wanted to lie down on Noct’s couch under that pillow, curl on his side, and just break apart. He’d never felt such an overwhelming urge to give in and shatter, but he’d never broken before and what would he be like afterward? What would Noct think of him? Gladio? Prompto too? What kind of guardian, protector, retainer, _friend_ would he be if he broke so easily? 

So he laughed instead, shoved aside the broken glass in his chest, and pushed on the safe side of the pillow. 

“All right, all right, you win. Let me up.” 

Noct backed off. He fell back on his heels on the couch as Ignis picked himself up and placed the abused pillow in his lap, smoothing out the lumps and wrinkles as his prince barely did not seethe beside him. There was hardly anything but anger and discontent from Noctis these days; it was comforting to know that least here, now, he understood why the prince was angry and how to resolve it. What he didn’t know was how to express it without giving his Uncle another enemy. Gladio was formidable enough. 

Ignis continued smoothing the pillow even after the imperfections were gone. Noct looked between him and his hands, checking for bruises or broken nails. He still suspected that Ignis lied about the blue stripes the first time they appeared at 11 years old, and kept lying every time they appeared. 

“I … tried to come out to my Uncle,” Ignis finally said. 

Noct released muscles he didn’t even know he was holding. That part was truth, at least. He frowned, brows pinching, and searched his friend as if he could find the rest of the story somewhere on his clothes. 

“And?” 

What little mirth there was drained. Ignis’s face settled back into that serious, faraway look, the one he wore before he’d smacked him with the pillow. At least he wasn’t hiding it anymore. 

“And he didn’t take well to it.” 

“What, did he yell at you?” 

“No.” Ignis sighed slowly, visibly counting to five before he let it out. “I gave him a copy of your father’s speech today.” 

Noctis waited a little more. This wasn’t it, he told himself, this wasn’t the whole story. So Noctis waited, hands fisted on his knees, and his patience paid off when Ignis went on. 

“He wouldn’t even look at it.” 

And his jaw clenched. 

“I’m sorry,” Noct said reflexively, then kicked himself. ‘I’m sorry’? What the hell good did that do? ‘Sorry your uncle is a jackass’. Yup, great job. Way to be supportive. 

“It’s all right,” Ignis forgave. 

Ignis forgave too easily. 

For all that he was taught and trained and hammered and pushed, he forgave too easily. For all the shit he put up with, for all the work he did, for all the extra hours he worked, the sleepless nights, the research, the extra driving lessons, the cooking and the cleaning and mending and the laundry and the yoga and the stretching and errands and paperwork and the gymnastics and the anger management classes he took strictly for his and Gladio’s benefit and _gods damn it all_ Noct didn’t even know what other extra shit he did— 

Ignis didn’t deserve that. He deserved to be able to tell the only known member of his family that he was gay. What good was being prince – being _King_ someday – if all he could say to that was ‘I’m sorry’? Ignis deserved so much more. So much better. 

Ignis deserved a movie night. 

“It’s not all right though,” Noct protested. “If it was ‘all right’, we wouldn’t be here. Gladio wouldn’t be buying pizza and beer and Prompto would be getting high at home by himself and I’d probably be – fuckin – I dunno, playing a game or something. Fuck, Igs.” Noctis looked away from him; he couldn’t handle the glassy sheen over his friend’s eyes. Ignis was breaking and there was nothing he could do about it. He scrubbed his face, wiping away the emotion before it could leak out of him too— 

– and damn near jumped out of his socks when the front door was kicked open. 

“Party’s here!” Gladio boomed from the foyer and slammed the door closed the same way he’d open it. 

“Gladio, the neighbors—” 

“–can suck my _fat_ dick.” 

The sound of unrestrained giggling followed as the titan of a man hauled himself and everything else in too; too-damn-big pizza boxes balanced between his hand and shoulder, a case of beer under his arm, a nondescript brown bag in his other hand, and trailing in behind him was Prompto, already out of his mind. His eyes were wide to begin with, but they grew wide as dinnerplates as they landed on Ignis and Noct on the couch. His haul was a case of water, another nondescript brown bag on top of it, and a six pack of his and Ignis’s favorite hard black cherry lemonade (what Gladio lovingly called ‘bitch beer’). 

“Iggy!” Heavens, Prompto was practically vibrating with excitement. 

“Put your shit down first,” Gladio cut in as he quite unceremoniously plunked the pizza and pasta boxes on the counter, then turned and relieved the nearly-shaking blond of his burden. Suddenly freed, Prompto launched himself at the pair on the couch from across the room, and Noctis scrambled to brace himself while Ignis scrambled to catch him. 

“OhmygodIggyInevergettoseeyououtsideofworkthisisthebestdayofmylifeIloveyouguyssomuch—” 

“Calm yourself, Prompto, breathe,” Ignis admonished, the wind knocked from his lungs the second time that day as Prompto crashed into him, long wiry arms wrapping around his neck and squeezing. Oh gods, it felt so good to be squeezed like that, like he’d vanish if he didn’t hug tight enough. Prompto was the most emotional of them to begin with, but he was absolutely undiluted when high or drunk. Concentrate, like dark brown sugar or flavored syrup. 

He squeezed so tight and earnest that the broken glass edges poked his chestwall again. Ignis sniffed, removed his glasses, and buried his nose in Prompto’s neck and shoulder. He smelled like vanilla and faint marijuana. 

“I’m happy to see you too.” Ignis heard his own voice shake. He closed his eyes to push back the urge to break again. 

…and Noct felt an ugly green cloud rise up in him. He wanted Prompto to be that happy to see him. He wanted Ignis to hug him like that. He wanted to hug Ignis like that. He wanted to be someone’s source of happiness too. Not frustration, not a source of work or a responsibility to be dealt with. He wanted to say ‘Hi, my name is Noct’, and not be introduced by someone in a suit as ‘The Crown Prince of Lucis, His Royal Highness Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV’. 

He wanted what Prompto had. 

So Noct crawled over on his hands and knees, wedged himself between Ignis’s side and the couch, and wedged his arm between their bodies, wrapping himself around Ignis just as Prompto did. 

Gladio heard Ignis shudder from all the way in the kitchen. He looked up and paused in the middle of folding back the box lids to really take in what he saw: Prompto in Ignis’s lap, hugging him for everything he was worth, and Noctis on the other side doing the exact same thing. Ignis’s glasses were off, hanging loosely in the hand on Prompto’s back and his eyes were wet again, shining silver in the fluorescent light. Yeah, that was better. That was more like it. His Uncle might be a dismissive shithead and frankly Noctis could be his own brand of shithead, but this—this was important in its own right. Ignis deserved the outpour of love he was suddenly getting. From all of them. 

“You are both so sweet,” Ignis whispered, the warble in his voice worsening. He pulled back, because if he didn’t he was going to break. Prompto loosened his koala grip and leaned heavily against Noctis, goofy grin still spread his face. It faltered as he suddenly saw the shiny wet on the other man’s high, proud cheekbones and the way he stubbornly rubbed his eyes, like he was trying to push them to the back of his skull. 

“What’s wrong, Igster?” Prompto chirped, sobering. 

“Nothing, darling.” He sniffed again – still stubborn – and replaced his glasses as if he were donning armor. Yet where he said ‘nothing’, Prompto seemed to hear something else entirely. Like he understood. 

Noct suddenly realized in watching them that even if Prompto was high as a kite and Iggy wouldn’t tell him what was wrong, he knew what it was like to be in whatever headspace Ignis was. 

“You gonna be okay?” the blond went on, still somehow sober and focused. 

“I will be.” Ignis’s perfect, broad, unmarked hand patted Prompto on the meatiest part of his thigh, forcing himself to smile. “As long as I have you, Noctis, and Gladio, I will be fine.” 

Something in Noctis flinched; Gladio dropped something in the kitchen; Prompto just swelled and bobbed his head a few hundred times too many. 

“Okay.” Their unspoken agreement made, Prompto wrapped his arms around Ignis’s neck and hugged him tight again, face nestling into the crook of his shoulder. Ignis let himself melt into it, but reopened an eye when he did not feel a second pair of arms; he looked at Noct, still at his side and looking like he wanted to be there but didn’t think he belonged -- so Ignis grabbed him by his shirt and hauled him in. Noct crashed into his side and snaked his arms between the two, grabbing fistfuls of Ignis’s shirt and burying his face into the unoccupied space of his friend’s shoulder. 

“Someone’s still missing!” he called none-too-subtly towards the kitchen. It was the loudest that Gladio heard his voice all day, but far be it from him to disobey a command. 

“Coming!” he called back sing-song, laying open the last of the pizza, breadsticks, pasta, mozzarella sticks, cans and bottles of booze and the cookies from Prompto’s favorite dispensary. Plates were out, utensils were out, paper napkins were available and he already had a plan for cleanup. There was nothing left for Iggy to do later. Satisfied, Gladio finally kicked off his titan-sized boots in the kitchen and kicked them out of the way, stalking across the apartment entirely for show and scooped them all up off the couch. 

Prompto squawked as he lost his balance and clung tighter to Ignis; Ignis offered a weak, broken laugh; and Noctis tried to kick away entirely, but wasn’t fast or strong enough to escape before they were all firmly deposited in Gladio’s broad lap. Noct squirmed some more and slid off to sit by his thigh instead of on it, yet if it wasn’t Ignis’s arm that held him tight and close, it was the way his laugh sounded suspiciously like a disguised sob. Whatever distance he gained by squirming away was suddenly negated when large arms wrapped around everyone and suddenly Noctis felt sorry for every squeaky toy he’d compulsively squeaked as they were crushed together in a gigantic behemoth-style hug. Prompto squawked again from the pressure, but dissolved into laughter when released, which spread to Ignis, which made Gladio give a big dopey grin. He smacked the nearest convenient appendage – thigh, back, butt, leg, whatever or whoever it belonged to – and leaned back on the couch with his large arms spread wide over the back, entirely too satisfied with himself. 

“Food’s ready, go get it.” 

Ignis was the last to untangle and get to his feet. Gladio made a point to give his ass an extra-hard slap. 

Prompto was hilarious when he was high, but the best part was how unrestrained he was. He didn’t worry himself into knots or think too much about what he said or did next, he just acted and it made him delightful. He cracked jokes, he spoke fluidly, and he was almost always touching someone; lying on them, leaning on their shoulders, or stroking their hands or legs and babbling about whatever was on his mind. Of them all, it was probably his energy and spirit that made the most difference in Ignis; even Noctis noticed that his laugh became less fragile, the shine in his eyes faded and for a few hours, he was normal again. 

…or maybe it was just the bitch beer. Ignis always drank wine when he drank at all, and only Prompto was able to convince him to try hard lemonade and cider instead. Gladio never pushed and Noctis never tried. Truth told, Noctis hadn’t found booze he liked yet and being royalty, he had plenty at his disposal. If local brewers found out, he’d be drunk off his ass with their multiple attempts to concoct something to suit his picky palate and he wouldn’t even get to enjoy it. 

‘Bitch beer’ wasn’t so bad though. There was something in it he kinda liked. He wasn’t sure what. Some underlying taste of unsweetened cherry with the darkness of cola and a bite of carbonation. There was only one left, and it was in his hand. He twisted the metal cap off without knowing if Ignis even wanted it and resolved that if he didn’t, he’d drink it himself. 

Prompto passed out on the couch some time ago; he was stretched across the cushions on his belly in a temptingly loose tank and boxers, ankles crossed and arms tucked against himself; he faced away from the glaring light of the television where Gladio sat on the floor and stared fixedly at a videogame. They’d watched every season of the animated show they liked and it seemed they all took turns sitting against Ignis in those hours (Prompto laid over his lap, Noct leaned on his shoulder, and Gladio hiked his legs over his shoulders and rubbed his feet). Now that it was closer to morning than the middle of the night, they were all slowing down. Pizza, pasta, and other cheese-heavy carbohydrate goodies were in shambles on the counter and paper plates laid around forgotten. Noct tried not to cringe as he saw a precious cookie crunched into the floor on his way to the balcony where Ignis was, catching the last of the night air before dawn broke. When the dawn came, ‘movie night’ would be over and … and they’d all have to go back to their stupid irritating lives. He wished the night could last just a little longer. 

Noct stepped out on the balcony. Even Ignis changed into his night clothes: a soft, slightly-too-short ringneck tee with sleeves slightly too tight around his biceps and equally-soft matching pants in grey. They’d known each other since childhood and almost every core memory had Ignis in it somewhere, but … but that didn’t mean those soft cotton pajamas didn’t drape around his friend’s ass just right. He was human, after all, and Ignis grew up into an especially attractive human. 

Noct looked a little more; the shirt rode up slightly where Ignis bent over the rail, exposing a sliver of his lower back and hips. Beauty marks flecked his skin, spots in varying depths of brown. They weren’t at all like Prompto’s smattered freckles, pink all over his face and belly and did Prompto have freckles on his back too? What about his thighs-- 

Ignis turned to look at him. Noct fell back to Eos. 

“Hey,” he said before his stupid teenager brain could make his mind wander any more. Ignis’s slight smile was as good as invitation, so he moved closer, holding out the glass bottle. “Last one. You want it?” 

He wasn’t wearing his glasses. Noct drank in the rare sight: Ignis, no glasses, hair down, physically rumpled and unstable behind his eyes, standing on his balcony on a summer night in pajamas. His pupils were starting to dilate after splitting a cookie with Prompto an hour ago. He looked thoughtful, then his smile grew bolder. 

“Why don’t we share it?” 

“… sure.” 

No longer did Ignis’s voice shake or warble when he spoke, yet neither was he perfectly composed. It was a long night – hell, a long day, and another was mercilessly barreling towards them. Noctis wished he could stop time. He wished he could give Ignis everything he needed to feel all right again. 

He offered the bottle. Ignis took the first of the final drink, handed it back, and Noct did the same. He wasn’t sure he’d finish even half of it, which meant more goodies wasted. He leaned on the railing and tried not to think about it. It was still dark, so they still had time. 

Ignis, apparently content to indulge in the comfortable silence, said nothing. Finally, Noct shuffled slightly closer until their shoulders touched. When nothing changed, he hung his head towards his friend, and felt Ignis kiss his hair. 

“… I’m sorry about your Uncle.” 

Hours of food, stupid TV, and too-cheesy pizza helped him find the words he needed – wanted – to say. Ignis hummed, and he felt his lips curve in his hair. 

“It’s all right, Noct. Don’t worry yourself over me.” 

“But I do worry,” he protested, more softly this time. “Igs, you’re... I … you deserve … better. Than that.” Here, Noct lifted his head to look at the other man. “I-- I … I want better for you.” Suddenly intimidated by the bubble of his own emotion, he looked away, searching the skyline of the city as if it might help him speak. “You’re my friend and … I care about you … and … you didn’t deserve to be blown off like that.” Noct turned the glass bottle in his hand … and idly wondered if he’d hear it hit the cement below if he dropped it. Focus, he told himself. “Especially not by someone you care about.” Now he forced himself to look up, and found Ignis looking back at him, pupils open and lips curved in a fond smile. “I care about you, Igs. I want better for you.” 

There. He said it. 

“Oh, Noctis–” 

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t comfort me. This isn’t about me. It’s about you.” 

Beside him, Ignis chuckled – no, wait, that was a giggle. The half-cookie was kicking in and Noct realized with deep-seated dread that he might be too late; would Ignis remember this tomorrow? Did he waste everything he said? Would they really go back to normal and Ignis wouldn’t remember a single word, a single minute of their night? What if he didn’t remember being the middle of the pile on the couch? Oh god – 

“Noct,” Ignis said again, bumping their shoulders and rousing the prince from whatever dark place he’d gone to. “You have done plenty to comfort me, as you put it. You had your Citadel duties today, went to your regular job all evening, and opened your door for us after midnight. You have had a very long day yet you are here, talking with me. You have been a very good friend to me tonight.” 

Then, whether by an urge he’d repressed for a long time or suggestion of the wine and weed, Ignis closed the distance between them and pressed a solid, hearty kiss to Noct’s cheek. Noct froze and internally exploded at the same time, like a movie glitching right as a bomb detonated on screen. 

“I’m very grateful for your kindness, Noct. Thank you.” 

Noct swallowed the lump in his throat. Why—why did … why did Ignis kiss him like that? And why did it make him feel so … funny? Like someone smacked that tingly tendon in both his elbows at the same time, except the tingle travelled from his cheek to the soles of his feet and the palms of his hands. 

And … god … he wanted more of that. 

He swallowed again. Licked his lips. Nodded. 

“We should go to bed,” he suggested. 

Ignis turned, looked back at the blond boy asleep on the couch, and Noctis admired him from the corners of his eyes: the tired look on his face, the hairline fractures behind his eyes, his proud, high cheekbones. He was perfection, Noct thought, perfection crafted by humans. The gods would never share such beauty. They’d hoard it for themselves, yet there Ignis was – close enough to touch. 

Close enough to kiss. 

“I agree,” Ignis said, turning back. Noct snapped back to reality. “What are your preferences?” 

“You and Gladio can have my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch with Prom.” 

“Are you certain?” 

“Yeah. I dunno if you’ve noticed, but Gladio’s kinda huge. He won’t fit.” _And I want to cuddle Prompto,_ he didn’t say. 

“Very well.” Noct watched Ignis again as he momentarily debated something, then stilled as he leaned in to kiss him again – this time, the corner of the mouth. “Good night, Noct. I love you.” 

Noctis was sure the fireworks in his head could be heard all the way to Angelgard. “Yeah.” Now he was breathless. “Love you too, Specs. Night.” 

* * *

Gladio stared at the pixels on the television. He couldn’t focus on the game anymore. There was a direction to go, a goal to accomplish, treasure to be found, and a story that he was interested in, but in that moment, he was too tired to care about any of it. Prompto handed over the controller hours ago (“I don’t wanna play, I wanna watch you play,” he said) and now he lay belly-down on the couch facing the back, legs pressed together with ankles crossed and his arms tucked against his own chest as if he were trying to cuddle himself. 

(Prompto was very open that he liked to be cuddled. He liked to be a squashed too. The pressure felt good, he claimed, but Gladio suspected it was similar to why Noct liked pain; it wasn’t actual pain or pressure the twinks liked, but the jolt of adrenaline that came immediately after.) 

So when Ignis came inside and (placidly) declared it was time for bed, he was happy to shut off the console and TV and get moving. ‘Noct is loaning us his bed,’ Ignis stated (still quite placid) and were it a single second before 4am, Gladio might find that weird, but the clock was pushing 5, so he barely cared. Sleep was sleep at that point. 

Noctis’s bedroom wasn’t unfamiliar to Ignis, but it was new territory to Gladio. He smelled every single thing in there from sweat and the laundry hamper to the very sheets on his bed, and sight of the bedding alone proved a personal theory; the pillows, duvet, and sheets were all Citadel-made and owned, confirming that Noct was not nearly as emotionally detached from his birthplace as he pretended to be. 

While Ignis cleaned up in the master bathroom, Gladio dragged his tired ass all over the bedroom picking up so that Iggy wouldn’t feel he had to; dirty laundry in the hamper, clean laundry stuffed in the closet with the door closed, shoes picked up and put where they belonged, dirty socks in the hamper with the rest of the undergarments, empty soda bottles in the recycling bin. Noct wasn’t better or worse than any other bachelor Gladio knew of (Nyx and Libertus lived, by choice, in absolute shitholes), but Ignis would probably press everyone’s jeans and sew up intentionally-ripped-knees if someone let him. 

He changed the sheets; the clean set were Citadel-made too, all in steely shades of black, blue, and grey. He tossed Noct’s body pillow on the floor with a mental note to take it apart and wash it in the morning, gave the prince the weighted blanket when he came looking for it, and hadn’t sooner flopped down on the end of the bed with a sigh when Ignis finally appeared in the doorway – and Gladio instantly forgot he was tired. 

Ignis was in the same pajama bottoms the night he showed up late to the Scientia manor; the same ones that draped across his hips juuust right with a waist tie that fell smoothly open when tugged. The ringneck shirt everyone loved was missing, and he found himself shamelessly drinking in the exposed skin and muscle. Ignis was fit and toned and put together beautifully with a firm and flat chest, tight stomach, long cords of muscle stretched over his arms and broad shoulders that effortlessly carried the full weight of the future Crown. His hips were sharp were enough to cut glass and his long, loooonnng legs went all the way up to heaven. The very sight of him leisurely leaning on the doorframe made Gladio’s mouth water. 

“Oh my god,” he muttered, not bothering to hide his stare. Ignis was … gods, he was stunning. It set something in him on fire, and his mouth hung open as the graceful body in the doorway pushed off and walked toward him with careful, measured, and silent steps. Ignis was a ghost out of one his trashy gas station novels, there on Eos for no purpose than to seduce him and drink in his blood and soul, and by god Gladio would let him. 

Ignis descended into his lap like an angel from the heavens; all grace and gentility and feather-light touches. Perfect arms settled over his shoulders, and Gladio himself draped his arms around Ignis’s perfect hips and waist, supportive and secure, and tilted his head as Ignis leaned in to kiss him. 

It was slow. It was sweet. It wasn’t light. It was love and lust and an altered mind all mixed together. His skin was on fire beneath the surface and if Ignis asked, he’d claw out his own heart and soul and give it to him right there. Until then, they only kissed and Gladio broke when he needed to breathe, eyes closing as his head swam. One of Ignis’s fine hands smoothed over the curve of his bicep, shoulder, neck, all the way up to his unshaved jaw, and he felt himself shake beneath that perfect purr. 

“You called?” 

“You’re lucky,” he purred back, lacking the finesse of the Scientia accent; his own was all gravelly and rough, like sharp little pebbles kicked over concrete. 

“Am I?” A perfect thumb touched his lips. Gladio kissed it. 

“If we weren’t in Noct’s bed…” 

“Hm. Perhaps I am _un_ lucky then.” 

Gladio groaned. He almost wanted the couch. He almost wanted to go find a hotel room. He almost wanted to throw Ignis in the car and drive them to his own damn house where he could fuck him through a wall. (They’d make a pitstop to bust his Uncle’s nose.) But he’d been drinking and it was so late that night was blooming into morning and it wasn’t about what he wanted, it was about Ignis. 

Gladio rubbed his hands over his lover’s back, taking in the long stretches of flesh over muscle over bone. Ignis was all silky skin and expensive cologne and godsdamn, how many other people dreamed of having him like this? How many dreamt of touching him at all? Other people of all sexes, colors, classes, and origins stared at Ignis Scientia. He was class, he was knowledge, he was skill, he was prowess. Ignis was a god and king of his very own; to the rest of humanity, he was untouchable. 

“New question,” he rumbled. He felt Ignis shiver. “How did I get so lucky?” 

“If I recall correctly, you showed up on my doorstep at midnight-thirty like a lost puppy and said you were hungry. Then you groped me and I never finished cooking.” 

“Mm yeah. Sounds about right.” 

Ignis chuckled low and smiled, the expression spreading wide across his haughty face. Gladio drank that in too. There wasn’t a soul in the world that got to experience him the way he did, and some romantic part was aware of how quickly the night would become a memory. He tried to burn it all in so he’d never forget: the silkiness of Ignis’s skin, the toothpaste on his breath, his weight in his lap, what he looked like without his glasses with his hair down, the way their faces touched— 

\--the fragility in his eyes. 

The way he subtly clung to them all when they piled together; Ignis kept a hand firmly buried in Prompto’s beautiful blond hair, hooked his other arm around Noct’s neck, and hiked long legs over Gladio’s own shoulders. The other two boys probably thought they were touching Ignis, but it was really Ignis clinging to them. 

So much of Ignis Scientia was silent and subtle. When the night ended, it would all be a memory, but Gladio was determined to make it one of the best. 

He patted the muscle of his thigh. Ignis lifted, he pushed backwards under the blue-and-black bedding, and Ignis slid in with him. They coiled and tangled into each other like they’d done a thousand times already, and Ignis sighed when he finally settled his head on the best sleeping spot on all of Eos: Gladio’s broad chest. 

The unfamiliarity of the bed would’ve set him on edge, like a popcorn hull stuck in his teeth, but it was Ignis’s visible comfort that quieted overactive senses. Gladio laid in the dark for a while and just breathed him in, and listened to his lover breathe too. The flame under his skin was nothing more than embers now. 

He counted the knobs of Ignis’s spine. Felt the jut of bone here and there. Followed long lines of muscle. 

“How’re you feeling?” 

“Better,” Ignis said coolly. 

He hadn’t expected an answer. Truthfully, he hoped lying down and touching would be enough to put Ignis to sleep, but something obviously kept him awake. Gladio hummed, and turned his head to nose into ashy blonde hair. 

“You know you can cry around me, right? It’s all right.” 

“Hm? What?” Ignis lifted his head slightly. 

“You can cry, Iggy. It’s okay.” 

The silence was deafening. The only sound in the bedroom was the soft ruff of silk sheets and skin on skin as he continued petting the other man’s back. The next sound was Ignis as he propped himself up on an elbow, green eyes seeking out his, and squinting in the lightless dark. 

“You’ve been on the brink of losing it all night,” Gladio went on, even and unashamed. “You’re not gonna feel better til you do.” 

Ignis didn’t react at first. Contentment melted away and the frown returned, tightening the muscles around his eyes. Finally, he laid his head down again, one perfect hand flat on his chest and proud cheekbone rested on top of it. 

“I wouldn’t want you to think less of me, Gladio,” he said weakly. 

“I think you’re Mary fuckin’ Poppins.” 

A weak laugh followed. Gladio chalked it as another small victory. 

“You’re fuckin’ perfect, Iggy. You always have been. You’re handsome, you’re smart, you’re always the best dressed out of all of us. You can cook, clean, sew. You always know what to say and how to say it. You read Noct when he’s being a stubborn shit and motivate him to get off his ass. You drive us all over the place anytime we _think_ we _might_ want to go somewhere, you keep up with Cor in the gym and knock cocky rookies on their ass when they square up. And you’ve got this bangin’ body—” Gladio grabbed his hip and shook, earning another bubble of soft laughter. “—and I’m still wondering why the hell you didn’t slam the door in my face.” 

Ignis hid his face between his hand and Gladio’s chest, sniffing wetly. So Gladio went on. 

“You’re amazing, Iggy. Seriously. You deserve so much better than some jerkass blowing you off. Hell, you deserve better than any of us. King Regis himself should be thanking you for all your work and service to the Crown.” 

Gladio paused and listened and watched … but Ignis was unmoving on his chest. Not sniffling, not shifting, not protesting. He did nothing but breathe. 

So, he went on. 

“If a thousand penguins escaped the zoo and came to do a little dance with you in the middle of the Citadel, I wouldn’t even blink. That’s how fuckin’ perfect you are.” 

Finally, another laugh. A good weak one, and he felt Ignis settle a little more weight on him. 

“Thank you, Gladio.” 

“Always, babe. So do I get to see you cry or not?” 

… and yet again, Ignis quieted, the soft, broken laughter fading in the liminal space of Noct’s bedroom. It was familiar to him but not to Gladio; it was neither night nor day; he felt neither better, nor normal. Indeed, it felt like time only existed because they were there to witness it. Gladio listened to his breathing, waiting for a sign of … something. Maybe not the hitch of active crying, but at least the telltale sigh Ignis always did when he felt safe enough to fall asleep. That didn’t come either. Gladio tucked his nose back into silken blond hair and resigned to earning nothing when he felt something wet on his shoulder. He touched his lover’s proud cheekbone, stroking with broad fingertips – and felt tears. 

Finally, another wet sniffle. 

Rather than speak, he kissed Ignis’s hair and squeezed around his middle. That night, in the liminal space of Noctis’s bedroom, Gladio learned Ignis hardly made a sound when he cried -- and he wondered, distantly, what made him that way. 

* * *

Noct didn’t like the black cherry lemonade enough to finish it. Iggy’s single swallow wasn’t enough to make a difference, and he was almost too tired to think, no less force himself to finish a drink just because he didn’t want to waste it. He left it on the balcony and locked the door behind him when he went back inside. The TV and console were off, Prompto had a light blanket tossed over him, and everything was in shambles; wires and controllers were all over (none of them even plugged in to charge), pizza and pasta boxes and foil and paper plates all over the kitchen and counter and table. For the first time in his short life he understood how Ignis felt; everything had been perfectly clean when he came home and now it was all a goddamn mess again. Worse yet, he knew he’d clean it all up later just so Ignis wouldn’t have to. 

That could wait for daylight though. Right now, he was exhausted, and Prompto was ripe for cuddling. 

Noct shucked off his jeans first, then his shirt, then realized his only other good blanket was in the bedroom. Gladio and Iggy weren’t bedded down yet so retrieving it was easy, and he wore it around his shoulders while trudging back to his living room. Finally, dressed in nothing but his boxers, Noctis sat on the edge of the couch, tossed the weighted blanket over Prompto’s, and pushed him forward like a sack of potatoes until there was space for him to lie down too. 

And lie down Noctis did. 

He lay on his side on the couch and wound his arms over Prompto’s skinny ribs, hand sliding up and under the hem of the blond’s tank until his palm found freckled skin and he used the leverage to pull them together. Prompto’s body fit so sinfully well against his own that contact like this always woke some secret monster deep within him. Something about their chemistry, their pheromones, maybe even their classes and destinies did something to him – or maybe it was the way Prompto sighed awake and turned his head, peering back at Noctis with red, dilated eyes. 

Noct wanted to put his hands all over him. Feel him up, like how he imagined Gladio felt up Ignis. He wanted to touch every freckle on Prompto’s pretty body, then touch them again with his mouth. 

He was sure Prompto would let him. 

But it wouldn’t be right to do it while he was high, so Noctis stabbed the monstrous urge within him and let it die. 

“Hey,” Prompto said sweetly, tiredly, and reached back to touch his face. 

“Hi.” He blinked as those fingers stroked his cheek and pushed hair away from his eyes. 

“Come here often?” The clumsy grin widened. 

“Not as often as I’d like.” 

Pink freckles reddened. Prompto bit his lip. Noct thought about biting it for him. 

“We can change that.” 

Oh, how that monster inside him roared to life again. He wanted to roll Prompto on his back, climb on top of him, split open his legs, and hold him down while he brought him to completion. He wanted to see Prompto’s face turn red, wanted to scratch down his chest, pinch his pink nipples until they were sore and red, ruin his neck, chest, and shoulders with teeth, and watch his mouth hang open as he came. He wanted to know if Prompto thought of him as often as he did when he was alone. 

But Prompto was high, and it wouldn’t be right, and besides, Gladio and Ignis were just a wall away. Noct wanted to smack his hand away from his face (and hold it down). Instead, he grabbed it, kissed it, and wound an arm around him so their laced-together hand pressed against that pretty freckled chest. 

“Go to sleep,” he said lamely. Prompto giggled and turned away with a sigh, nestling into his new favorite position. 

“Night, Noct.” 

“Night, Prom.” 

_I love you._


	2. Darkness, Darkness

**_Six months later..._ **

  


**Charmless:** hey have any of you heard from iggy 

**Behemoth:** I saw him last night, why? 

**Charmless:** augustus called out for him this morning, said he’d be out for a couple weeks. he say anything to you? 

**Behemoth:** Wtf? Augustus? Yeah, I’ll give him a call. 

**Charmless:** ok 

**Behemoth:** Called his Citadel phone and personal, no answer. His voicemail was wiped, too. 

**Charmless:** wtf?? something’s wrong 

**Behemoth:** He was fine last night. I’m stuck at the Citadel all day but I’ll see if I can go by his place during lunch. You here all day too? 

**Charmless:** yeah 

**Behemoth:** Prompto, can you call Iggy and make sure he’s okay? 

**Charmless:** prompto 

**Charmless:** prom 

**Charmless:** promptooooooo 

**Charmless:** :( 

**Prompto** **♥** **:** wtf why are you guys blowing my phone up it’s like 7am why are you even up 

**Charmless:** something’s wrong with iggy and we can’t get away, can you check on him 

**Prompto** **♥** **:** wtf why me 

**Prompto** **♥** **:** you really think they’re gonna let me anywhere near his house 

**Behemoth:** If something’s up, they’re gonna expect us. They’re not expecting you 

**Prompto** **♥** **:** gee thanks 

**Charmless:** you know what he means 

**Prompto** **♥** **:** yeah let me get up and get moving and i’ll let you guys know 

**Prompto** **♥** **:** can’t believe that it takes iggy vanishing to get noct up before noon 

**Charmless:** :( 

**Prompto** **♥** **:** couldn’t even get in the gate. his car’s in the drive tho so he’s definitely home. 

**Behemoth:** anything else look weird? 

**Prompto** **♥** **:** not that I saw 

**Charmless:** fuck 

**Behemoth:** Easy, princess. Talk to your dad and I’ll see if I can cut out early. Prompto, you stay available, okay? 

**Prompto** **♥** **:** I have work in an hour :(

 **Behemoth:** Call out. If they give you trouble, we’ll take care of it. 

**Prompto** **♥** **:** okay… 

**Prompto** **♥** **:** told em i twisted my ankle at the skate park they want a doctor’s note 

**Behemoth:** Done. Sit tight and let us know if you hear anything. 

* * *

Noct shoved back the hands that grabbed at him, just short of snarling. He was the _Prince_ goddammit , and even if he didn’t live there, the Citadel was his home and he’d go anywhere in it that he damn well pleased. Guard or Glaive or otherwise, _nobody_ had the right to tell him no, and he shoved the great doors open with all of his strength before they could pull him back. 

“Dad!” 

\--and froze as nine pairs of eyes turned on him. Only one belonged to Regis; the rest were councilors, advisors, secretaries, and they were _all_ in business suits, robes, and other finery while he, the Crown Prince of Lucis, stood there at the door in a faded black t-shirt and old jeans and broken-in sneakers, hair unbrushed and dirt under his nails. He’d felt powerful only moments ago when shoving aside Glaives as they thrusted their hands on him and tried to pull him back, but suddenly, looking into that room at eight people that were not Ignis or his dad, he felt very, very small. 

He looked from face to face; he recognized most of them, but didn’t remember all of their names. He knew they were important people, and someday he’d _have_ to remember them all, and more. Not just names and faces, but who they were as people, where they came from, who their families and ancestors were, what they could offer Lucis and what Lucis would give in exchange, the size of their nations, the capitols. _Everything about them._

How the hell was he supposed to do that without _Ignis?_

Finally his eyes landed on Augustus. 

Augustus was like his nephew; cool, ashy hair, eyes green like sea water. His face was sharp and serious, his cheekbones high and haughty, the corners of his lips always drawn down in a disapproving frown. He carried himself with a distinct air of pride that only came from Tenebrae, that only generations of familial honor could uphold. Though he was silent now, Noct could hear his pretentious accent and the way he talked down to people he found unworthy of his attention. 

And there were marks on him. 

Part of his eye was blackened and a red bruise blossomed on his jaw. Two of his fingers were splinted on one hand; on the other, a stiff brace held his thumb stationary. All of his knuckles were swollen and discolored and he looked tired. 

But all Noct could think about at that exact moment was grabbing his collar and shaking until he spat out the answer to _Where_ _the hell is Ignis?!_

“Noctis,” Regis said, placid and easy. He stood first – the rest followed in polite quiet, not a single chair squeaking on the marble floor – and waved him in. “You have good timing. We were about to break for lunch.” 

Noct suspected that was bullshit. The others bought it anyway, and offered Regis a polite half-bow before filing away from the long table, and Noct moved aside to let them leave, putting distance between him and them and edging towards his father at the same time. He nodded to each man and woman, half-bowed to some, and stared at Augustus for what he knew was a second or two too long as he passed by. 

As the last body left the room, the Glaives at the door pulled it closed, and Noct had made it to his father’s side. He turned just in time for Regis to pull him to his chest and he went in easily, arms wrapping low around his father’s waist and face hiding in his shoulder. He felt like he was six years old all over again, scared of the dark after waking up at night. 

If Regis was bothered, he didn’t show it. He rubbed careful circles on Noct’s back instead, leaning on the table as his only son soaked up whatever he needed to pull himself back together. It wasn’t often that Noct came to him for _anything_ , and rarer still that he clung like this. Noct kept so much hidden under his skin, and whatever _this_ was obviously burrowed deep. 

“What is it, son?” Regis finally said, pressing a kiss against dark hair. “What’s wrong?” 

“Ignis,” Noct said without hesitation. He lifted his head and drew back slightly, but not all the way; not so far that he’d leave his dad’s arms. “Augustus texted everyone this morning and said he’ll be gone for a couple weeks. Gladio saw him last night and said he was fine. It doesn’t make sense, something has to be wrong.” 

“That _is_ troubling,” Regis agreed. He shifted his weight, leaning harder on the stone table, and brushed steely-black hair from Noct’s face with his free hand. “Neither of them said a word to me either.” 

“Something _has_ to be wrong.” Noct backed away now, and Regis took the opportunity to sit heavily on the edge of the table, picking up his braced leg and resting the point of his shoe on the floor. “Iggy doesn’t just vanish like that.” 

“I assume you’ve tried to call him? Gone to his home?” 

“Gladio called both of his phones. Prompto went to his house. Nothing.” 

“Hmm,” Regis hummed again, and rubbed his beard slightly too hard. “I don’t know of any special assignments that would remove him from you either. Even so, I’d expect he’d at least answer your calls or texts.” 

The next time Regis looked up, he found his only son standing there and … staring. Not like when he’d walked in the room and had the air sucked out of him, oh no. Noct looked like a wilted flower; tired and worn out around the edges, sagging under his own weight. A little lost. A little scared. A little bit of a whole lot of things he tried to never be or show anyone he ever was. 

“What do I do, dad?” 

Regis sighed. He made himself smile. “Give me a few hours, son. I’ll talk to Cor and Clarus and we will find him before the end of the day. All right?” 

Much like Regis made himself smile, he could see Noct make himself nod. But the boy didn’t feel better. It was something slightly more than nothing, but it wasn’t what he wanted. Ignis never neglected him before. Come hell or high water, Ignis was _always_ there, and now that he wasn’t, he saw a gaping hole in his son that couldn’t be filled by anyone else. 

“Come here, Noct.” Regis extended his arm, open and inviting, and Noct stepped into his father’s arms again, burrowing his face in his chest and clenching his striped blazer in his hands. “We will find him, son. It will be all right.” 

Noct nodded where his face pressed into him, quieted. The hurt and fear that came from the sudden abandonment wasn’t gone, but it was least numb for a little while. 

Regis spent the rest of the lunch break like that; he held Noct in comfortable quiet, leaning on the table and rubbing his back – and silently swore to himself that whatever happened would be dragged out into the light. 

* * *

“So I lift you up, you climb over, drop down, and let me in.” 

“Got it.” 

“Ready?” 

“Born ready.” 

Gladio _hupped_ and Prompto damn near flew over the gate. He landed in a crouch and sprang to his feet, whirled around, and pried the gate open from the inside. The only thing that stopped them from looking terribly suspicious was Gladio in his Crownsguard uniform and Prompto was tiny enough to vanish behind his bulk. The lock creaked with complaint and Gladio ripped it open, stalked through, and slammed it shut with the force of all the anger he’d held in that day. 

Prompto scrambled after him. But after that, he started to feel like an accessory – that Gladio only brought him along because he needed someone to open the gate – but it wasn’t the time for that bullshit, so Prompto tried to squash the feeling down and kept up instead, matching one of Gladio’s wide strides with three quick skips of his own. 

“We’re not trying the front?” 

“Why would we?” Gladio snorted. The Crownsguard mask he wore throughout his usual day was peeling back and the anger underneath showing through. Prompto was scared of it, just a little bit. Gladio never snapped or yelled at _him_ , but … well … Gladio was easily three times his size. He could crush him like a soda can or _worse_. One wrong move, one foot-in-mouth joke and Gladio could make him disappear altogether. 

“If Ignis is hiding or _being_ hidden, he’s not gonna come to the door for us,” Gladio went on, unaware of the crisis brewing in the blond’s brain. “We gotta sneak in.” 

“Uh, you mean _break_ in?” 

“What’s the difference?” 

“Gladio. I’m not breaking into Iggy’s house.” 

Gladio whirled around; he found Prompto a few steps back, slightly glowering, slightly – scared? Both his feet were planted on the stone walk and his elfish face was drawn into a tight frown. 

“Nothing’s gonna happen to you, Prompto.” 

“Yeah, _you_ say that. What about when someone calls the cops? They’ll smack you on the wrist and send you back t o the Citadel. They’ll throw _me_ in the slammer and my parents aren’t home to bail me out.” 

Gladio’s eyes narrowed. Prompto shrank right under him – but good on the kid, because he stared back with those big violet eyes and didn’t give in. 

“Fine,” he grunted and turned back, continuing on their path. “We’re not breaking in.” 

They walked only a little further, circling to the far side of the house. The fence was taller than even Gladio, so Prompto didn’t even bother trying to look over it or around the walk and yard. It was all plants anyway and whoever managed them had obviously been slacking off. Weeds wriggled in between the stones; plants withered in old clay pots. The only thing that grew in the sunless yard was the type of stuff that thrived in neglect. 

He thumped into Gladio’s back when he suddenly stopped, but Gladio didn’t as much as budge from the impact. Prompto rubbed his pointed nose and looked up, then up further to follow the other’s line of sight; he was looking at a window. The curtains and blinds were drawn. Between the hour and reflective glass, it was impossible to tell if there were lights on inside or not. 

“Is that his window?” 

“Yeah.” Gladio’s voice was flat. He bent all the way back down to Eos, picked a few smooth pebbles off the neglected ground, and stood back to his full height. He pitched one at the window, just hard enough to make an audible _crack_ without cracking the window itself. 

Nothing. 

Gladio threw another pebble. 

Still nothing. 

Prompto shuffled from foot to foot. Shivered with the loss of sunlight. Rubbed his upper arms. He’d dressed for indoor heating, not outdoor autumn in the late afternoon while the sun was setting. Yet _still_ nothing happened, and Gladio bent to scoop up a few more rocks, and between the cold, the cluelessness, and maybe picking up on the resonating anger, Prompto snapped. 

“Did you really ask me to come just to open the gate and break into his house for you??” 

“Yeah.” 

Gladio’s voice was deadpan. He wasn’t even paying attention. He was staring at that lone window and pitching pebbles at it. Either it was going to crack when he threw too hard, Ignis would get annoyed enough to answer, or absolutely fucking nothing would happen. So far, ‘absolutely fucking nothing’ was winning. 

Prompto shivered, rubbed his arms again, and scowled. “Asshole.” 

Gladio still wasn’t listening. He went through two more handfuls of pebbles and Prompto sat on a less-than-structurally-sound brick wall, holding himself and trying not to shiver. The light was fading and the air was getting colder. Prompto briefly thought about Noct and going to his apartment for the night instead of his own empty house, but that thought died on the vine; stressed and anxious over Ignis missing, he was staying at the Citadel. Go figure it’d take the royal babysitter straight up vanishing to make him go home. 

_Plink._

_Plink._

_Crack._

_Plink._

He was shivering now. Full-body shivering. It kind of hurt. 

“He’s not coming, Gladio.” 

The plinking stopped. Prompto, wholly expecting to be ignored, swiveled his head over to him – and gods, the sight drained all the anger, annoyance, and pain right out of him. He never thought he’d see Gladio so … _defeated_ . And the way he stared up at that window—Prompto knew that feeling. He felt that way looking up at Noct on the balcony when he went home at night. Now he knew what it looked like on someone else, but god damn it all, he never expected it on _Gladio_. Gladio was … infallible. Impenetrable. Always victorious. He always won, even when he didn’t. 

Except here. Where it mattered. Where Ignis _wasn’t_. 

Suddenly it didn’t matter that he was cold. Ignis was _missing_ . Ignis, Noct’s first friend from childhood. Ignis, Gladio’s boyfriend. Ignis, who made all the time he spent with Noct possible. Ignis, who picked him up and dropped him off at school with Noct when it was raining. He was gone. And there _he_ was, bitching about being cold and angry that Gladio dragged him out to throw rocks at a window after refusing to break into his house. 

And now Gladio was standing there with that _look_ on his face, like he was confronted with something he couldn’t beat or schmooze into submission and didn’t know what to do about it. He looked … lost. Hell, they were _all_ lost without Iggy, but Gladio looked broken, too. 

Prompto glanced around the ragged courtyard. Well … maybe the house didn’t have an alarm system. Maybe the inside was as neglected as the outside (doubtful). Maybe … if they could just crack a window open, he could fit. He could take his shoes off and walk around silently and— 

Gladio perked suddenly. 

“Prompto,” he breathed. Prompto jerked his head up and stiffened. A light was on now and shadows moved across the blinds. It was a person. Just one. He didn’t know if the shadow was Iggy-shaped or not, especially with the distortion, but if it was his bedroom window, then it had to be him, right? 

The light flicked off. 

Prompto held his breath. Gladio did too. 

Unspeaking, they both listened. At the front of the house, the door opened and closed, followed by a car door. They looked at each other as the engine cranked to life, and the metal gate screeched open, tires rolling over gravel. Then the gate ground closed, and the motor grew louder as it passed them, then faded into the distance – in the direction they’d come from. 

In the direction of the Citadel. 

Prompto frowned. “Was that--?” 

“Dunno.” Gladio fished his phone out of his pocket in the midst of answering. There was a single unread text and as he opened it, the first thing he noticed was that it was not in their usual groupchat; Noct texted him and Prompto, but left Ignis out. 

“What’s it say?” 

Gladio’s head swam. He blinked back the dizziness, the vertigo, and forced himself to breathe, to _focus,_ and take in what the single text meant. 

Who was the one person in all of Eos that Ignis would never, ever neglect? If he went into hiding, who would be the only one capable of digging him back out? Who would Ignis break his own rules for? 

And if the worst was true, if there was some shit going on with his uncle and he was keeping him out of view, hiding him away – or hiding something _about_ him – who would be the only person that even Augustus Scientia wouldn’t dare disobey? 

**Charmless:** dad found him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update's preview...
> 
> “Oh, son,” Regis sighed. “This was Augustus, wasn’t it?” 
> 
> “Yes, Your Majesty.” 
> 
> “Have you seen a doctor?” 
> 
> “No, sire.” 
> 
> “Have you seen anyone?” 
> 
> " ... no, sire."


	3. Hold On to Me

Regis kept Noct close to him throughout the day. The Prince had his own appointments, but the gaps were filled by shadowing his father and hardly anyone flinched when the Prince sat in on the King’s meetings, unscheduled. It was all things, events, and people that he would need to know someday anyway, and the only real downside Noct felt was that he had to look at Augustus’s stupid fucking face all day.

Augustus always put Noct on edge. He was cold and his expression hardly ever changed; he never looked pleased nor displeased, his voice was flat and emotionless, and Noct understood every single reason that Gladio hated him. He’d sell him to the Empire if it would bring Ignis back.

He focused more on the content of the meetings than he ever had before, following outlines and presentations page by page, graph by graph. It filled the Ignis-shaped gap in his head and kept him from reaching across the tables to throttle Augustus.

Days had ends, even for the King. Hell, _especially_ for the King. Regis was weaker than he used to be, but he wasn’t slow or stupid, but the separation was nice. They had a casual dinner together at a table where they could sit close, and Noct leaned on him when it was over and they talked about their day. He talked about Prompto and his apartment and how Prompto always seemed reluctant to go home; he told his father about school and what the teachers and other students were like; he talked about the arcade and movies that were out. Regis soaked it all in because it was the most he’d heard his son talk in months. Eventually Noct seemed to run out of things to say and his energy dwindled to ash, burnt up from fear and worry and the day’s events. Regis walked him to his old suite, then to the bedroom, and stayed a while longer to indulge in the opportunity to hug him goodnight. It bought time for night to fully blanket Insomnia, and there was no time better to draw someone out from hiding than under the cover of darkness.

The greenhouse made a perfect cover as well. Plants draped from the glass ceiling as soon as they crawled along the floor, and the white night flowers were in full bloom. Aulea had planted them years ago on the eve of their wedding night; back then, they were only a sprout. Now the blooms took over the box, and Regis found he could not stop looking at them. The moon offered an ethereal blue glow over the petals, and something about them made him smile. Good days long gone, he supposed.

A door opened and closed.

Footsteps.

His focus broke.

Regis stood by habit, leaning heavily on his cane and good leg and ignoring the protest in his back. A familiar figure came around the leafy corner a moment later, obscured and lit by the full moon at the same time, and Regis let the smile spread across his face.

“Ignis,” he said in relief.

Ignis stopped at the corner; Regis’s smile faltered. He was dressed down, but not unkempt; his mousy blond hair was brushed and hung loose around his face, and his sweater was dark and comfortable with long sleeves that covered his knuckles, and his slacks were pressed, fully free of lint and wrinkles. Ignis put a ridiculous amount of thought into the way he dressed even on his off days, but it wasn’t his clothing that made Regis’s smile give way to a frown.

It was the mark on his cheek. Not even the moonlight could hide it: purple and red blotted his cheekbone and the cut was dangerously close to his eye.

Ignis shifted his weight; the Scientia way of fidgeting. He was visibly, palpably uncomfortable.

“Your Majesty.” Even his voice was subdued.

“Come here, son.” Regis waved his free hand and Ignis, forever proper, obeyed. His shoes were soft on the clean stone and his eyes somewhere between the King’s feet and face as he drew near. Shame dripped from every pore, and his eyes only lifted when he felt a hand on his cheek, thumbing carefully just outside the long, sore, swollen streak on his cheek.

“Look at me, Ignis.”

Ignis looked, and Regis felt his heart drop; part of his eye was red, too, blood vessels burst on impact.

“Oh, son,” he sighed. “This was Augustus, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“No, sire.” 

“Have you seen _anyone?_ ”

Ignis hesitated. It was not like Ignis to hesitate. Then again, none of what happened today was like Ignis. “No, sire.”

Regis hummed and sighed and pressed his lips together. He dropped his hand and waved again, motioning to the young man. “Sit with me, Ignis.”

Regis lowered himself with a deep breath and exhaled slowly, and it was not until he was comfortably sat on the garden bench that Ignis let himself sit as well, knees together and hands politely, loosely folded in his lap. It was quiet in the greenhouse with only them inside, and plants and flowers filled the room without adding extra eyes and ears. They were as alone and safe as they could possibly be, and Regis admired the white moonflowers in front of them without speaking for a bit. Beside him, Ignis was still, wrapped in wounded silence. A flower shifted, a leaf pushed aside – and the King found a little mouse poking its head out at them. He nudged the young man next to him and nodded, watching from the corners of his eyes as Ignis followed directions. A little smile cracked the sadness drawn over him.

The mouse twitched its nose and looked back, watching, little whiskers ever-moving; tiny little gears turned in its head, considering the large creatures before it. Regis hummed thoughtfully to himself as he leaned sideways and reached into his pocket, feeling for the little snacks he carried with him like a secret. He shared several with Noct throughout their day – crackers and tiny cookies, bite-sized candy bars and butterscotch drops – and found the familiar wrap of a packet of opened crackers. He drew it out, unfolded where he closed it earlier in the day, and pulled out one of the remaining two. He felt Ignis’s sea green eyes watching him; every movement was slow and deliberate so that not even the wrapper crinkled. Then he leaned forward, tossed the cracker to the garden box across from them, and leaned back to wait.

The mouse, ever-attentive, watched intently. Its head vanished into the dark of the leaves and it reemerged full-body a second or so later from a different hole and edged its own wandering way towards the treat, stopping here and there to sniff and paw at something, feigning disinterest. Both men nearly held their breath as it reached the little toasted cracker, pawed at its edge, then snatched it and ducked back under the leaves with its prize.

Regis breathed finally, smiling. He folded the packet closed again and tucked it into his pocket.

“You worried Noct half to death today.” He kept his voice low. Casual. Conversational. There was a _reason_ that proud, perfect Ignis Scientia hid all day, and came out only under the safety of night. Imperfection did not suit the Scientia house, and even if bandages could cover the cut on his cheek, there was nothing to be done for a reddened eye and the questions would never stop.

“My apologies, Your Majesty. It was not my intention.”

“I understand. I don’t know if Noct will, but I do.” Regis turned to him again, smiling. “I am sick to death of all these people asking about my leg. I understand it’s the second trait they remember of me, but I can only answer so many times before Clarus reminds me that I can’t, under any circumstance, roll my eyes at everyone that asks.”

A smile pulled at the corners of Ignis’s lips. It was something; more than nothing at all, the type of hesitation that made him think that Ignis and Noct weren’t that different. They expressed themselves differently, but the roots were the same. Where Noct played dumb when confronted with something he didn’t want to deal with, Ignis drowned himself in work and quiet.

Regis patted his knee carefully. “Tell me, how is Noct doing? He told me about a boy named Prompto earlier today. Who is he?”

The tension in Ignis’s shoulders shifted. With something different to think about, he searched the stone floor. Regis watched different thoughts flit across his young face, mouse-blond hair hanging over his brow.

“Prompto,” he began, careful, “is a schoolmate. He is in the same class as Noct and they are the same age. Noct tells me he introduced himself by running up behind him and declaring them best friends on the spot.”

“How bold,” Regis grinned. “I like him already. I assume you did a background check?”

“Yes. He is a commoner adopted from beyond the Wall. He lives with foster parents.” Ignis paused, weighing … something. Information, maybe. Trying to decide how much to say and how to say it. “Unfortunately, his grades are lacking. No disciplinary marks as far as I saw, but frequently has detention due to failed tests and assignments.”

“What do you think of him?”

“I…”

Again, he could see Ignis thinking, shuffling through all of the information in his head as he decided what to say, or how much to reveal.

“I believe … he is a good influence on Noct. Noct is more open with him than he is with me or Gladio, and they have many common interests. He eats more and seems happier overall.”

“Noct also seems quite taken with him.” Still Regis grinned and leaned forward, elbows on his knees for balance as he rubbed his white beard. “Of everything he’s told me today, he spoke of Prompto the most. Do you think Noct likes him beyond friendship?”

Ah, there it was: Ignis’s mask slid away; he blinked slowly as he smiled and the wounded silence fell like a veil. Finally, he looked at his King and gingerly rubbed his sweater between his fingers.

“Yes. I’m not sure if he’s aware of his own feelings, although Prompto definitely returns them.” Ignis hesitated there, then went on. “They’re very sweet together.”

“Tell me more about him.”

“He’s very expressive and wears his heart on his sleeve. He cannot get angry without crying. Last I looked, he was taking film photography classes and learning to develop it himself. Lots of high scores at the arcade. He comes over to Noct’s apartment to study, which is the only reason Noct studies at all, and when I proofread their essays, he said his one goal in life was to see a ‘real live chocobo’.”

Regis grinned, about to speak, but paused when he saw Ignis’s cheeks darken in the moonlight.

“He also gives excellent hugs.”

Oh-ho. _Now_ Regis let his smile broaden and he laughed softly too, looking away from Ignis to offer him a brief moment of privacy after such a weighty confession.

“I take it you like him just as well then. What about you and Gladio? How are you two getting on? Any problems in your schedules?”

“No, sire.” The blond youth shook his head, smiling more genuinely now. “We find time to spend together. We usually see each other in the evening or on the weekend. He likes to come over for dinner, or we’ll all have dinner at Noct’s. Prompto included.”

“It does my old heart good to see how well the four of you get along, no matter how hard Noct tries to isolate himself. With friends like you, Gladio, and Prompto, he will never be alone.”

Ignis nodded once, still smiling, proud cheeks still pinked in the moonlight. The poor boy might never get used to compliments. “Thank you, Majesty.”

“You know as well as anyone that I only tell the truth. I will never lie to you, Ignis.”

“…thank you, Majesty.”

“Always, my boy.”

Regis let the conversation lull; he watched the bush for mice or other rodents, but none came. He thought about the candy in his pocket; about Noct up in his suite, possibly sleeping, possibly playing on his phone; he thought about a boy named Prompto somewhere in the city. He thought about Danu, just outside the greenhouse door.

He thought about Augustus. He thought about the man’s injuries; a black eye, a casted arm, a stabilized wrist and hand, and two splinted fingers.

“Ignis.”

“Yes, sire.”

Regis straightened and turned, flinching as pain shocked low in his spine, and he held his hands out, palms up and open.

“Let me see your hands.”

At first Ignis did not move, sitting in frozen quiet, looking – only _looking_ – at his King. It was unlike him to weasel his way out of doing something he didn’t want to, yet never was he back-breakingly obedient either. Regis watched an entire battle flit behind green eyes over whether he wanted to comply or not.

Finally, he delicately lay one hand in Regis’s, sweater sleeve still pulled to his knuckles.

The first things Regis saw were two broken nails; the rest were polished and manicured, but the nail on his middle finger peeled off in sheets before breaking off entirely. All of his knuckles were discolored. He eased the sweater sleeve higher, and forced his face into what _felt_ like a blank, neutral expression at what he saw.

Stripes. Deep, fresh red stripes, only hours old. They crisscrossed the backs of Ignis’s hand in painfully straight lines, one impact after another until his first knuckles were gone altogether, hidden by swelling and loose blood. Small cuts riddled the ends of some, already cleaned and treated, the worst butterfly-stitched.

He pushed the wool higher.

The marks kept going.

…and going and going and going, until it was all the way up to Ignis’s elbow, and there were no longer _just_ stripes; faint blue circled his wrist in the shape of handprints.

It was enough to make him sick and angry and shameful all at once.

“A switch?” Regis asked softly.

Above him, Ignis nodded. He was stone-still otherwise. “It … has always been a switch, sire.”

Regis hummed. He wished Clarus was there. Clarus would understand; Clarus would set a hand on his shoulder and help squash down all the terrible, angry, betrayed, bitter feelings that bubbled up in him. But Clarus was not there and it was probably for the better, because the conversation would’ve never happened if he was. Ignis wouldn’t open up and he especially wouldn’t allow anyone else to see the marks.

“And, the one on your cheek?”

“He missed when I pushed him.”

“Hm.”

He turned Ignis’s hand over carefully, old fingers smoothing down the sensitive underside of his arm. More marks; not as many as on top, but still there were bruises from other hands – where he’d raised them to protect himself.

“Why did he strike you?” Regis drew the sleeve back down to where it had been and reached for Ignis’s other hand; Ignis met him halfway, palm angled so his swollen, red hand was easier to take and the sleeve easier to push up.

Ignis opened and closed his mouth a few times, starting and stopping, before he found his voice again.

“There was … an article. It was … about me … and Gladio.”

Regis quirked the corner of his lip. “Does he disapprove of you and Gladio together?”

“No.” Ignis shook his head as Regis delicately rolled back his sleeve. “As far as I know, he is unaware of my preferences. He was angry that there was an article at all and told me I was being careless.”

“Careless? Does he think a romantic relationship is careless?”

“I believe he thinks I should be putting my work and title first and my own life second and never crossing the two.” Here, Ignis paused. “I wonder if he preferred I was like him and fancied no one at all.”

“Perhaps. I’ve met many of types of people with many different preferences. It is no reason to harm another person.” He turned Ignis’s swollen hand so their palms were flat together, fingers relaxed, and traced the lines where bones and tendons should be, but swelling and bruises replaced; he felt for knots and hot, hard spots, but finding them within blood-thickened wrists and fingers was nearly impossible; he could barely tell the difference between what might be a broken bone or a developing bruise. As he finished with one hand, he took up the other again to do the same, and they lapsed into a more comfortable, thoughtful silence. In the end the swelling was too thick to tell the difference and he began to lower the boy’s sleeve again – yet, as he did, Regis was surprised to find Ignis reaching out to him, and he laid both damaged hands into his own.

As he looked up, he found Ignis’s green eyes searching him. He’d seen that look before; he saw it in beleaguered citizens, in tired politicians, in exhausted parents, in desperate people at their wits’ end. He was searching for some sort of an answer.

“Sire…”

“Yes, my boy.”

“When you went to Accordo thirty years ago, you were accompanied by three others. Clarus, Weskham, and Cid.”

“I was, yes.”

“At any time, did you ever find your feelings for them … changing?”

Regis hummed thoughtfully, just as he knew he did too much, just as he knew drove Clarus up the wall when one person too many asked ‘how’s your leg?’

“Clarus and I knew each other for a long time and were always very close. Aulea as well, though I met her a few years later. I didn’t meet Cid or Weskham until my teenage years, and that was entirely by circumstance. We were not introduced intentionally nor did we choose one another as friends. At the time, it was mutual convenience. I needed a mechanic for the journey, and Weskham was picked from a pool of applicants from Keycatrich.

“I think it was when we left the Wall for the first time that made me realize how easy my life within it truly was. No one spoke to me the way Cid did, and Weskham had a wonderful perspective as an outsider from Keycatrich. Clarus was always supposed to be my Shield and protector, but when I realized how alone I was outside of Insomnia, I also realized how much I took the Amicitia oath for granted.

“I already trusted Clarus a great deal, but out there, I began to feel I could _only_ trust him. I trusted Weskham to offer his best judgement and I trusted Cid to make the best repairs on my father’s Regalia should something happen to it, but the truth is the first time we were attacked by MTs, Clarus was the one I looked for and he always came to my defense even when I did not need him. When the Regalia wrecked, he tore the door off and pulled me out. On the days that we made no progress and just fought back hordes and hordes of daemons, he was there to heal me and hold me up when I could no longer stand.

“I don’t remember the night we arrived at Cape Caem, but I remember the next morning. There was nowhere to sleep, so we bedded down on the floor of the lighthouse, and I woke up in Clarus’s arms. The first thought I had was how right it felt to have his arms around me. My next thought was that I did _not_ want to go to Altissia, because I didn’t want to get up, because I wanted him to hold me like that forever.”

Regis smoothed his thumbs carefully over the swollen backs of Ignis’s hands. “I do not believe that my feelings for Clarus changed as much as I realized the depth of them. How much I relied on him and needed him, and how much I cared for him. I didn’t know what waited for us in Altissia, so the morning that we left, I stopped out in the open sea because I _needed_ to tell him how I felt. I couldn’t bear the thought that I or he may die without knowing. Thank the gods I did too, because he immediately confessed the same. He said he’d been in love with me for years, but also knew we had to put duty before our feelings, so he swore never to act on them unless I did. He kissed me half-senseless on the bow.”

Regis grinned; Ignis smiled slightly as well, recognizing that grin as the same he saw in Noct some days.

“Then Cid hit us with a grouper and said it was ‘about damn time’.”

Regis allowed himself to laugh, grey eyes sparkling in the shadowy garden as he thought back to older, different times, and he watched the smile finally bloom on Ignis’s young face. No longer was the boy wrapped up in wounded, shameful silence or hiding his hurt from anyone that might see. He was himself again, candid as he allowed himself to be.

“What about Aulea?”

“Aulea,” said the old King, thoughtful again. “She already knew. When we returned, I told her about Clarus and myself immediately. She was tickled pink. Apparently, she knew since we all met that Clarus and I loved each other and he’d already spoken with her over what to do about it before leaving for Accordo. We lived, as they say, happily ever after.” He shrugged a shoulder, still smiling. “Or as much as we could under the circumstances.”

“Are you and Clarus still … close?”

“We are.”

“What about the Queen and Danu?”

“Honestly? I think Aulea and Danu liked each other more than they ever liked us,” Regis laughed. “After our parents died, Clarus knew he had to marry quickly so he began looking for someone who would be more open to our dynamic. He met with a few Lucian women, but he didn’t think they would understand or fit in with us. Danu’s family reached out to him all the way from Galahd with their offer. She was the tallest, strongest woman we’d seen yet, so obviously he accepted the opportunity to meet her. He introduced her to us later and after few months, he told her the truth of our relationship. She didn’t take to it right away, but Aulea encouraged her to give herself time to adjust, and she did.” He chuckled again, thumbs smoothing over the swollen backs of Ignis’s hands. “Honestly, Ignis, I think Danu was smitten with Aulea the moment they met. If Aulea said she was cold, Danu would give her her jacket or cape. If she said she was warm, she’d take her coat. She doted so much on her that Clarus and myself were afterthoughts.

“When Danu gave birth to Gladio—“ Regis sobered and his old eyes were years back in reverent memory. “Aulea was in the delivery room with her. It felt… gods, Ignis, I cannot describe it. Gladio is not mine or Aulea’s, but the pride in all of us—It was like all of hearts grew larger that day. We couldn’t see past one another anymore. It was the five of us forever. Myself, Clarus, Aulea, Danu, now Gladiolus as well. Then Noct was born and— gods’ graves, Ignis. I held the world in my arms when I held our sons.

“When Aulea passed away, it was like I died with her. I didn’t feel anything for weeks. Not love, or happiness, or anger. No grief. I was never hungry, I never slept. Clarus dragged me through my days and when I did feel, it was only longing for him. He was all I had left. Isn’t that ridiculous? A crown on my head, Lucis at my feet, and sons on my knee, but I had nothing if Clarus was not with me.”

Regis paused in wait; in that time, Ignis shook his head slightly.

“I don’t think it’s ridiculous at all, sire. Everyone suffers grief differently.” Ignis started to squeeze the hands that held his, but it must have hurt because he stopped almost immediately. Suddenly his voice quieted, his eyes dropped, and the smile faded to nothing. Regis leaned in and drew the teen’s hands closer. “I am a Crownsguard and someday I will be a Glaive. Someday I will be Noct’s advisor and his Hand. I have spent so much time and so many hours researching, looking for the cures to his pain, taking care of him. Yet every time Augustus struck me, I always felt … shame.”

“Why did you feel ashamed, son?”

Ignis’s face did not change. His eyes did not rise. He did not smile. He didn’t even focus on their linked hands. Regis knew that look; he saw in Noct all the time; he saw in Noct all damn day today. He watched Ignis sort through his thoughts and feelings, and watched emotion entangle with logic, each battling for dominance.

“Ignis.”

Finally, those troubled green eyes looked at him again.

“Do not mix your feelings with your duty here,” Regis said gently. He saw the surface of the young man ripple, like a still pond disturbed by something beneath.

“But … that’s my problem, sire. How could I possibly be my best for Noct if I can’t even stop my uncle from striking me? What good is a Crownsguard that can’t defend himself?”

“Ignis, this is not a moral failing on your part, nor does it reflect on your standing or your future as a part of my son’s retinue.” Regis released one of the boy’s hands, allowing it to lower to his lap between them as he stroked just below the ugly cut on his cheek. Red stained his cheek like ink, loose blood spilling beneath otherwise-perfect skin. “Your uncle, the only member of your family that you know of, chose to strike you _._ He could have stopped at any time, yet he didn’t. Worse yet, when you tried to stop him, he did this. He is just as aware as you that you are the only kin he has in Insomnia. This is not an action reflecting that. If he loved you and appreciated you and your presence in his life, he would not have done that. This is not an expression of love, Ignis.”

Something cracked. Regis saw it. He damn near _heard_ it.

“You have done nothing wrong. You have done nothing to deserve this.”

He watched the shine in Ignis’s eyes; the way his throat tightened and jaw clenched. The way he tried not to break.

“If anything, Ignis, I share your feelings of shame. I have seen these marks on your hands before. I remember every time I saw you in long sleeves in summer. I have wondered about your broken nails. I look back and think that I should have known, I should have said something, I should have _done_ something. I shouldn’t have let you suffer under his hands. There are so many things I should have done but didn’t.”

Ignis’s eyes were hard on him, shining in the moonlight; his breath was stilled. Across from them, Aulea’s white flowers spilled over the garden box and reflected in those marble-green eyes. Regis pursed his lips and forced himself to smile in the face of heartbreak.

“What good am I as King if I cannot save the people I love?”

The dam broke; the ice gave out. Ignis’s green eyes squeezed closed and tears rushed out; his teeth clenched but his lips split. He sucked his breath in through his teeth, but it wasn’t enough to stop it. It came all at once, like a high wave crashing out in the wildest, unruliest part of the seas, and Regis rushed in to catch him as he leaned forward. This time, when he grabbed onto Ignis, he crushed him to his chest and put an old hand on the back of the boy’s head as the first sob tore him apart.

“He said we have to be _perfect_ \--” The first sob tore through Ignis’s chest. It bubbled up from the middle of his lungs, knife-sharp and merciless and blood poured out in the form of words. Everything he tried to keep down, every feeling he repressed, every wrong ever forgiven rose up within him like seafoam, thick and salty and choking, cutting off air as his throat grew tight, and the knife-edge sob cut his insides even more. “He said _everything_ we do must be perfect, and perfection does _not_ get entire _articles_ with _photos_ of them _snogging_ their _boyfriends_ published about them in _tabloids--_ ”

“There is no such thing as perfect, my boy.”

If grief was a hurricane of knives and metal burrs, then Regis was a calm, hidden harbor; steady, predictable, and peaceful. He tucked Ignis’s broken hands between them, protecting and hiding the damage so that no one else might see, and turned his head into mouse-blond hair and put his arms around him. Ignis had his own solid presence and physical strength – but here, now, physicality did no good for him at all.

“Even if there was, perfect people do not strike their loved ones.”

Still Ignis shook. Years of hurt poured out of him; years of the void between himself and his family; years of pain hidden underneath gloves and long sleeves; years of trying and hoping; years of holding it all in; and the final six months of sharp, violent realization and an hour of confirmation, disappointment, sharp strikes, and blue bruises.

Regis rubbed his back; he felt the texture of the youth’s sweater underneath his old, soft hands, and the tremors travelling through his back and lungs. Years of grief came out all at once, and he leaned his head against Ignis’s as he sobbed. Warm wet touched his skin, and Regis pressed a kiss into ashy blond hair.

Overhead, the moon followed its predestined path through the sky; Aulea’s white flowers followed it, faces pale and nearly glowing as if to offer its light to them and only them. Distant stars sparkled like the glitter mixed into Insomnia’s sidewalks. As the night pressed on and Regis held Ignis close to him, the soul-shattering cries lost their power and the boy’s strength and grief began to wane. His own shoulder was wet and aching, and when he was certain it was safe to move, Regis petted the back of the boy’s head, combing his fingertips through his hair.

“I want you to stay here, Ignis. I don’t want you to go home to that again.”

Ignis swallowed, hard and heavy; he began to break the hold his King had on him, leaning back and delicately removing his glasses. Regis went on, lowering his hold to just the boy’s shoulders.

“Noct is here, but he doesn’t know you are. I will keep him busy tomorrow so that you might have some time for yourself.”

“… thank you, sire.”

“It is my pleasure, my boy.” As Ignis cleaned the wet from his glasses, Regis made himself smile again. The poor boy still looked broken; red spots bloomed around his eyes and the cut on his cheek was scarlet red, inflamed even further after the outburst. Regis guessed it was numb now, but it was going to sting horribly in the morning.

“Let’s get dinner in you and find an open bed. First thing tomorrow, you’re going to have your hands and cheek checked. You’ll see my physician. Confidentiality is his specialty, as you know.”

“Yes, sire.”

The well of emotion was drained; too worn out to consider his pride, Ignis nodded numbly as he agreed, and Regis leaned forward to press another kiss to his forehead. He didn’t miss the sigh that followed, nor the way Ignis leaned into it, as if being given something he’d wanted for ages but never had the bravery to ask for. Then he stood, staggering to his one good leg as Ignis finished his glasses to an acceptable degree, and he stood as well, shaking out yet another sigh.

The Guard at the door slipped out of sight before they passed by (King’s orders), and Regis half-lead Ignis through the hall as Ignis half-supported his weight. The Royal suites were never short on beds either, and there was always someone in the kitchen prepping, cooking, baking, or just experimenting; their dinner was light and private in a smaller suite – smoked salmon with lemon, a dark-leafed salad with light dressing, half a boiled egg each, and a handful of dried berries and almonds on Ignis’s plate – and Regis didn’t attempt to pry smalltalk out of him. The poor boy had enough pried out of him since morning, and as the time came for them to part, Regis kissed his brow. Again, Ignis sighed and leaned into it, offered both gratitude and an apology together, and Regis brushed off the apology but accepted the ‘thank you’ as he left.

Truthfully, he thought it was poor manners to leave the boy alone in such a time of need – yet he also knew Ignis would not rest until he was assuredly alone, and he would not let anyone see his weakness and imperfection.

* * *

Clarus straightened when the door opened, and looked backwards over the couch as he saw a familiar body hobble in. It was Regis and only Regis, and he settled back into the corner of the couch to resume reading.

“Oh, don’t get up on _my_ account. I’ll struggle over here on my own, completely fine ‘n’ dandy.”

“Quit your bitchin’,” Clarus responded dryly. “Last time I tried to help, you swatted me off.”

“Maybe I didn’t want your help. Maybe I just wanted to swat you.”

“Maybe this, maybe that. Make up your mind, princess.”

Regis faux-huffed behind him, balancing his limp and the cane with undoing the buttons on his shirt. His fingers were cold, which made the action awkward and difficult, and he came around the couch in the private suite to sit heavily on the other end, sighing as the pressure released from his back and knees. He propped the cane on the arm, but it rolled sideways and clattered to the ground anyway; he let it fall – watched it even – and just pursed his lips with another sigh as it laid there.

Well. It wasn’t as if he planned to get up again anyway.

He swung his good leg up and kicked at the other man’s thigh. Aside from turning pages, Clarus was unmoving.

“What are you reading?”

Regis squinted his old eyes at the cover of the book. It was…plain. Blue and black. Silver lettering. Nothing on it to drawer a reader’s eye, nothing about looked even remotely interesting enough to be on a bookstore shelf. It looked suspiciously familiar. It looked like—

“Clarus, are you reading the _dictionary?”_

“Mmyup,” Clarus replied smartly, popping the ‘p’. “Nothing new at the store or library.”

Regis scoffed. He settled further into the couch, letting his back slide to the cushioned seat and his braced leg hang down, and pushed his other, still-shoed foot up the other man’s thick thigh. Clarus rested a hand on his shin, rubbing through the fabric at first and apparently finishing the page he was on. He lowered it and fished out his bookmark, marked his page (he _bookmarked_ the _dictionary_ , Regis agonized to himself), set it down on the nearby table, and set immediately to undoing his king’s shoe.

“So what happened with Ignis? Crown City isn’t on lockdown so I assume you found him.”

“I did, yes.” Regis sighed for the nth time and rubbed his eyes. “His personal phone was off, but the Citadel issue was still active. He holed up at home all day. It was as we feared.”

“Augustus.” Clarus spoke the man’s name like ice. He slipped the shoe off and looked over as his King forced himself to sit up again. He dreaded taking that brace off; it wasn’t difficult, but…everyone saw the brace; only he knew what lie beneath it.

The Crystal was eating his love alive, starting with his bones. Soon there would be nothing left of Regis’s leg, and it’d eat away the other one too. Then it would eat his pelvis, then his spine, and it’d eat at his ribs and keep eating and eat and eat until nothing was left.

Clarus wanted to smash that Crystal most days. Years of tolerating it never dulled that edge. He _hated_ that Crystal.

“Mm,” Regis hummed. “Appears they got into a fight and Ignis had enough. Augustus hit him one too many times, Ignis finally lashed back, and Augustus struck him across the face. Nearly got his eye. An inch closer, he’d be missing it altogether. Luckily it’s only a cut and a few burst vessels.”

“What’re you thinking?”

“Meat grinder.”

Clarus rolled his eyes. “You can’t send people you don’t like through a meat grinder.”

“I’m the King, I can do as I damn well please.”

“We’ve had this discussion. No meat grinder.”

Regis put his wrist to his forehead. “Oh, you’re so cruel to me, Clarus. You’ve always been so cruel.”

“Mm, sure, Reg.” He pushed the leg off of him and slid effortlessly to the floor before him. Regis straightened and sat properly, extending his braced leg and letting Clarus rest the sole of his boot of his shoe on his chest. Buckle by buckle, strap by strap, Clarus removed the brace.

He tried not to think about that damned Crystal.

He tried not to think about how fragile Regis’s leg felt underneath it.

He tried not to think about what it would take to destroy the Crystal and take back their lives.

The golden cage fell away under his hands. Clarus lowered it to the floor and left it there; Regis sat up a little more, tentatively bending his ankle after holding it straight all day, and Clarus pressed his hand to the remains of the muscle, holding it steady as he flexed.

“All right?”

“Just stiff.”

Regis sighed and relaxed, melting back into the pillows of the couch. Clarus lowered his leg and foot to rest on the ground, undoing his other shoe and slipping it off.

“What are you going to do with Augustus?”

“Reassign him. Get him out of the Citadel. He’s useful to the city, but... ”

“But?” Now he worked on the socks, stripping them from the King’s foot, turning them inside out, and lay them over the tops of his dress shoes.

“Frankly after knowing what he’s done _and_ that he got away with it for so long, I don’t want to have to look at his stupid face again. I especially don’t want him anywhere near Ignis or in the Citadel.”

“What does Ignis want?”

“I don’t think Ignis knows what Ignis wants right now. Poor boy was in shambles.”

Clarus didn’t get up. He stood on his knees instead and bracketed the King with his hands planted on either side of his hips; in that position, they were face to face, his own drawn into something somber, but serious. “He may not want you to. That boy protects his heart better than the military protects their secrets.”

Regis smiled slowly. Their closeness and Clarus’s warmth and frank manner brought some sort of peace from within him. Peace he always knew was there, yet rarely could indulge in and or act upon. He leaned forward, closing the distance between them, and touched their brows together.

“It is not only him that has been affected. When it is all behind us, he will understand.” The King paused there, taking in Clarus’s faded yellow eyes with his own. They’d grown so old, and he aged faster than his lover. There wasn’t much time left for them to be together. No less, Regis let himself grin. “What would you do, Clarus?”

“Me?” Clarus raised his brows in faux-surprise, then scoffed. “Meat grinder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know exactly how bad Iggy is, check out this **[wonderful bust](https://www.dropbox.com/s/w26vrbc1w506gcv/breakoutthemeatgrinder1.png?dl=0)** by my bestie, [alex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/absolutecely/). No blood, but there is a pretty nice bruise.
> 
> ===============  
> Next update's preview...
> 
> “I’m finished for the day and Gladio is taking Noct home. He plans to stay with him for the night. Would you like to do dinner?”
> 
> Ignis did not want to do dinner. He didn’t want to do anything that wasn’t lie in bed and ache. “Of course, sire.”
> 
> “Wonderful. I’ll wrap up and come to you in about an hour. See you soon, son.”
> 
> The word stung a little more than it should have. It hurt and it felt wonderful at the same time. ‘Son’ – something that no one in his family ever had the opportunity to call him, and Augustus never did. They’d exchanged words over the course of their lives, but never anything familial. Friendly, at best. 
> 
> Until now. Now they were nothing. 
> 
> “Yes, sire. See you soon.”


	4. On and On and On

The first time Ignis woke up, the room was dark; streetlights lit the window by the bed, streaming in right on top of him. Very little seemed real at 3am, and even less when he moved and dull pain rumbled through him; it shocked and stiffened one side of his face and made moving his arms and hands nearly impossible, but it served to wake him up. 

Memory trickled back in in flashes; Augustus; voices in the yard; Gladio throwing pebbles at his window; Regis texting his Citadel phone; the careful drive to the Citadel, where he was sure not to touch much or squeeze anything; the mouse in the garden; finally, eating and going to bed. Or _t_ _owards_ bed. 

That’s right, he’d sat down to remove his shoes and laid back to rest for ‘just a moment’, but now it was several hours later and he still felt sore and drained, flopped backwards and sideways across the bed. Fatigue turned his bones into bricks. 

Ignis shucked off his clothing and threw it across a chair, fashioning it into a problem for later-Ignis. He locked the bedroom door and this time, he crawled beneath the fluffy sheets and duvet properly in nothing but skin, and dropped off within seconds. 

The second time he woke up, it was daylight. 

And he _didn’t_ feel better. 

Humanity was creeping back into him though, taking shape in the form of wants and needs and urges and cravings. He was hungry, for one, and that was a relief because it meant he felt something beyond crushing pain and residual anger. 

He reached, by habit, for the night stand and groped for his phone, but the sharp corner pressed slightly too hard into his wrist and he snatched his hand back under the blankets with a hiss. It throbbed and thrummed, hot and heavy and thick between the underside of his skin and the surface of his bones. Somehow the pain radiated through the rest of him and nausea mixed with hunger, but at the same time, Ignis knew he couldn’t stop. He _had_ to get up _,_ he _had_ to keep going, and he had to— to _do_ something. He couldn’t just lie there all day feeling sorry for himself. 

Ignis dressed minimally – undershirt and boxer-briefs – and found his phones out in the sitting room where he did _not_ remember putting them. The Citadel issue was dead, battery drained after being left on for hours, but his personal still had a charge after being off for a day and a half. He found a charger in the room and plugged in the first, then sat heavily in an arm chair to turn on the other. 

There were texts. Missed calls. Voicemails. Most were from the usual suspects. One missed from Regis, the same message sent to his Citadel phone (“Are you all right? We are worried for you. Please call me.”), and the rest… the rest he simply didn’t feel up to dealing with. He was still tired beyond measure and exhausted on the inside. It hurt to handle his phones and his fingers felt thick and clumsy, but he thumbed the screen anyway to mark everything as read, dismissed all the notifications, and silenced the ringer. 

There was _nothing_ from Augustus. 

Just as Ignis made to put it down, a new message popped up. It was from Regis. He hardly hesitated to open it with a careful tap. 

And gods, relief flooded through him. A photo accompanied the text; it was Regis and Noct together, both in their finery and smiling into the camera. They were between meetings and Noct looked absolutely _dashing_. His hair was neatly brushed and dusty blue eyes lined with black, lashes thick with mascara. Regis’s smile was kind and sincere and their faces tilted towards each other, Noct’s slightly lower than his father’s. Even in the photo, the old King’s greying eyes sparkled. 

Ignis saved the photo immediately, and scrolled to the text, the edges of pain continuing to recede. 

_Good morning, Ignis. Let me know when you’re awake. My physician is expecting you. I can accompany you or you may go alone, whichever you prefer. Noct is still worried and I think Gladio is just shy of leveling the entire Citadel in your honor. He is with Clarus for the day. Let me know when you feel well enough to get together_ _again_ _._

Just as he finished the first, a second message followed. It filled him with … something. A deep, indescribable feeling. Something thick and warm in his chest. 

_I love you, son._

Ignis tapped “send read receipt” without thinking, put the phone face-down on the table, and leaned forward with his face in his bruised hands. 

He had to keep going. 

* * *

His wrist was broken. 

Luckily the gods made Ignis Scientia ambidextrous, but it still felt like an insult. His _wrist_ was _broken_. Never in his many days of intense Guard or Glaive training did he ever break a bone, but a well-placed switch from his uncle split his cheek, bruised his hands, and broke his wrist. He should have come sooner, the King’s physician said, but the break was clean and easily set, so he was none the worse for it and could be on his way after being fitted with a webbed cast. It was light and flesh-colored (less attention-drawing) and printed directly onto his arm from a neat little machine, which made for a fine distraction until he remembered _why_ he needed it in the first place. The Physician ordered no pushing, pulling, grabbing, or any sort of lifting, and ‘come back in a week when the swelling goes down, we’ll see if you need a new one.’ The rest of him, even his cheek, was fine, and the only damage worse than his wrist was his done to his pride. 

The Physician sent the results directly to Regis (Ignis’s request), and Ignis left long enough to go home, pack a change of clothing and pajamas, and went right back to the Citadel and back to bed with the doors locked and light off. 

The third time he woke up, the sunlight was dying and the room was dark – and his phone by the bed jingled. 

It had to be Regis; everyone else was muted. 

Ignis swallowed around the dryness in his mouth, picked up the phone with a clumsy bound hand, slid the green button sideways, and tapped the speaker icon. It was easier than trying to hold it. 

“Sire.” 

“Ignis! I almost didn’t expect you to answer.” The King’s voice was as bright as his eyes, even over the phone. “How are you feeling?” 

“…exhausted,” Ignis admitted, laying his head on the pillow again. He’d woken up on his stomach, and he pried the downy pillow away from his mouth to speak clearly. 

“I expected as much when I did not hear from you. I’m finished for the day and Gladio is taking Noct home. He plans to stay with him for the night. Would you like to do dinner?” 

Ignis did _not_ want to do dinner. He didn’t want to do anything that wasn’t lie in bed and ache. “Of course, sire.” 

“Wonderful. I’ll wrap up and come to you in about an hour. See you soon, son.” 

The word stung a little more than it should have. It hurt and it felt wonderful at the same time. ‘Son’ – something that no one in his family ever had the opportunity to call him, and Augustus never did. They’d exchanged words over the course of their lives, but never anything familial. Friendly, at best. 

Until now. Now they were nothing. 

“Yes, sire. See you soon.” 

The gods blessed Regis with patience and wisdom. Some of it was hard-won, some of it was learned, a lot it was inherent. Ignis suspected that when they were handing out empathy, Regis elbowed Augustus out of the way and took his share plus seconds. 

They talked about everything but his injuries over dinner; they talked about work and Noctis, and Regis asked to know more about Prompto and when would he get to finally meet him? They talked about Clarus and their past relationships and how Clarus’s wife fit in with the established trio when he married. Aulea and Danu were hesitant to become physical but made fast friends and quickly found themselves relying on each other as easily as their husbands. Danu became pregnant first and held Aulea’s hand when Gladio was born and did the same for Aulea when she delivered Noctis. Two mothers made co-mothering easy, two fathers made it even better, and together, the four of them balanced duty, parenthood, and their relationship well. Looking back, Regis knew it was the happiest, purest period of his life and never would he ever surpass the years of bliss they spent together. 

Then there was the car accident. Aulea pushed toddler Gladio and baby Noctis into Danu’s arms as she fought through hot, twisted metal, bending steel back with her bare hands as the vehicles burned. By the time the paramedics reached the wreckage and pried open the cab, Aulea was gone – the Queen of Lucis, killed by a drunk driver. The wreckage of King Mors’s Regalia was retired and what could not be salvaged was melted down, and every usable piece was built into the next generation, later becoming the Regalia of King Regis. 

But Noctis was left without his mother, and Regis’s memory of the following months was hazy. He confessed that he disliked the idea of nannies and other women that were _not_ Aulea or Danu looking after their sons, but Clarus was pragmatic and realistic and the voice of truth and reason despite his own grief, and Regis was placated with the knowledge that Danu would be there to hand-pick their caretakers. Cor, one of her personal favorites, put a foam sword in Gladio’s hand the moment he could hold one and taught him how to swing it. He later did the same for Noctis, and the two boys thrived under her care and watchful eyes. 

Regis also stated he remembered the day Ignis himself came to Insomnia from Tenebrae. He was somewhere between Noct and Gladio’s size, but painfully shy and Regis couldn’t even see him from his throne; Danu brought Ignis to him, and they shook hands, talked about carbuncles and cartoons and a little bit of his ancestral home in Tenebrae, and would you like to meet my son, Noctis? He is shy as well and I think you two would get along wonderfully. Ignis met Noctis the next day, and the rest was history. 

Ignis didn’t feel as terrible as he thought he would by the time dinner was over. A little tattered around the edges, but after nearly an entire day of rest, a heavy dinner, and at least a liter of water, he felt less liable to break apart again. The web of plastic encasing his arm did not weigh so much and the swelling went down. The bruise on his cheek was reduced to a formless, shapeless pain that ached all the way down to his teeth and he was able to forget about it if he didn’t think on it too much. 

This time when he went to bed, he dragged himself through his entire going-to-bed process; pajamas rather than skin, phones plugged in to charge, the suite door locked; he put his glasses in the hard case on the nightstand, and downed a final a glass of water before crawling into bed. 

The fourth time Ignis woke up, it was still dark. Some hazy feeling of peace had wriggled in with his breath and settled into his chest. 

Then all at once, he felt very, very alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry, we're on the upswing!
> 
> ======================  
> Next chapter's preview...
> 
> There was Prompto Argentum, grinning ear to ear; he still had his glasses on and was dressed in an absolute eye-searing tie-dye shirt and black running shorts that piqued his own curiosity just a little too much; blonde hair fell all around his face, fresh and unbrushed after a shower. The interior of the home behind him was dark – save for what looked like the glow from a TV screen – and Ignis felt his heart thud slightly harder in his chest. 
> 
> It was Prompto. Only Prompto. He was sweet like sugar, always smelled good, always smiled, and he was good for Noct. The doubt fled from his chest, like birds shaken from a tree. 
> 
> “Hey Iggy,” Prompto said, unquestioning. “Come on in.”


	5. Seed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i used a docx-to-html converter for this chapter to save myself some formatting trouble, so if something looks wonky, that's why.

Ignis laid in bed for a while more with his eyes closed, only breathing and feeling. Meditating, maybe; his focus didn’t drift further than the heavy blankets on his back and the way the mattress pressed against him. He thought about the warmth of the pillow against his face and the faint smell of wet stone and cold marble; he thought about how warm and comfortable he was in the Citadel bed, and how much he wanted to go back to sleep; he thought about Gladio and wished that he was there to hold him.

He rolled over with a deep inhale, and exhaled with a measured count to ten. Loneliness threatened to take him, but he crushed back the tightness in his chest and the familiar annoying prick behind his eyes. If he called Gladio, Gladio would ask questions he did not feel like answering. He couldn’t possibly bother Noct with his troubles. While he didn’t doubt Regis would rise and answer, middle of the night or not, he didn’t want to pull the King out of his bed (he’d burdened him with enough anyway). Clarus tended to be a decent sounding board and had mastered the balancing act of love and duty against logic and emotion before any of them were born, but waking him would wake Regis too. Cor was decent company, but he didn’t think the Marshal would understand.

That left no one at all.

Ignis pressed a hand to his face, fingertips receding when he felt the tape of the bandage over his cheekbone.

It was the middle of the night and he was alone – or maybe just groggy.

Maybe coffee would help.

Bless the person that put a coffee bar in every suite. With no other reason to get up, Ignis folded back the bedding, wrapped himself in a soft warm robe, and made his way to the sitting room to start a pot. A broken hand presented new challenges; it was dead weight at best, too tender to even be able to balance anything on the webbed cast and the plastic too slick to be a decent surface anyway. Luckily coffeemakers were simple and familiar and pretty soon, the water was heating and all he had to do was wait.

In that time, Ignis sat in an armchair, pressed a hand to his face, and tried not to think about how he felt.

Something buzzed nearby. He cracked open an eye and looked for the source: his personal phone, face up, screen lit. Where he thought he’d silenced it altogether before going to bed again, he’d made a careless mistake and left it on vibrate instead. Thoughtless and habitual, he picked it up, thumbed in the passcode, and looked for the latest notification.

There were texts from the day; their groupchat was less active during the time he slept, but each message was tailored to be open-ended, dancing around his absence while also leaving invitations for his input. Noct sent selfies from between meetings; some nice and posed with good lighting and a sparkling smile, some where he was making the ugliest, silliest face possible. Prompto, who taught him how to take good selfies in the first place, barraged each photo with every single heart emoji known to man and gushed to Noct how “handsome” and “regal” and “drop dead gorgeous” he was.

(Really, how did Noct _not_ know how head-over-heels for him Prompto was? He gave him flowers for Valentine’s Day for gods’ sakes.)

Gladio responded – equally kind and with adoration – about how Noct was “the prettiest emo princess Lucis would ever see”.

That started a selfie-off. The first photos were beautiful, taken by Prompto; well-framed, well-lit with clean backgrounds and interesting angles, contacts swapped out for black-rimmed glasses at the end of the day. Gladio’s photos were less experienced; mirror shots from bathrooms and the gym, taken in the kind of lighting that highlighted muscle and the fresh black ink embedded in his skin; photos of his shakes and smoothies; a single photo of weights. His final photo was a deadlift – Ignis tallied the plates in the shot and flushed when it weighed in at just below a thousand pounds.

(Gods’ graves, he _loved_ watching Gladio lift. Ignis wasn’t sure what it was, but the raw power and flex of muscle beneath tan skin lit some fire in him that made the sex when they got home absolutely _mind-blowing_.)

Noct sent the fewest photos, but preened in all of them, vanity on full display; every shot was carefully angled and framed to be as flattering as possible and his eyes were always in focus, waterline lined in black and already-thick lashes darkened with mascara.

The final photo was from Gladio; he was wrapped around Noctis on the Prince’s apartment couch, one thick arm slung around him with Noct leaned heavily into his side, face free of makeup and eyes sleepy. The last text was around midnight of each of them saying goodnight, sleep well. Then there was nothing.

Ignis scrolled to the beginning and saved every single photo. The coffee finished its drip and he set his phone down long enough to pour a cup, sweeten it with brown sugar and creamer, then returned to his seat.

The broken hand disallowed him from holding both his coffee and phone at the same time. It was _awful_. So he set his phone on the arm of the chair, held his coffee in the good hand, and tapped the screen with the other.

There wasn’t much else to look at. People poking at him, looking for a reaction. Someone offered to buy him coffee (like fifteen other people didn’t do the same thing every damn day). Someone else asking where he was and when would he be back and hey, did you finish reading that report yet? He marked them as read and dismissed their icons.

Still nothing from Augustus.

Finally, the most recent icon floated the top. A text – one of many – but not from who he expected.

**Prompto:** u ok?

Ignis hesitated. He checked the details of it; it was currently a few minutes past 2am and the text was sent fifteen minutes ago. He was the sole recipient and before Gladio made the groupchat, the only messages they exchanged before was Prompto sending “x” to confirm that he was home safe about a year ago. He searched his memory of the last two days, and realized that Prompto hadn’t poked or prodded or approached him. Sure, he accompanied Gladio to throw rocks at his window, but it was likely Gladio’s goading that brought him there and that wasn’t the same thing.

He thought about last Pride. About how Prompto looked at him and hugged him and didn’t ask questions. He thought about how Prompto looked at Noct on Noct’s bad days, and his suggestions of things were to do were always things Noct liked. He thought about the week when Noct had the flu and Prompto stayed over to take care of him, watching daytime TV and feeding him soup and waking him up to drink water or go to the bathroom, and how Noct fell asleep in Prompto’s arms on the couch.

He thought about how Prompto fashioned himself into a comfortable, reliable presence. Like he understood how to be simply _be there_ without the compulsive need to attack their problems.

Ignis checked the time and timestamps again, and typed a slow, difficult text with his broken hand.

**Ignis:** I will be fine. Thank you for asking.

He was about to close the text and chug the last of his coffee when a response rapid-fired back. Prompto was awake then – wide awake, phone in hand, and reaching out while Noct and Gladio and Regis and Clarus and Cor and the rest of Insomnia slept.

**Prompto:** you sure?

**Prompto:** you want some company?

And yet again, Ignis paused with his coffee halfway to him. _Did_ he want company? Yes, but … also no. He wanted to go back to bed and go to sleep and resume life like there wasn’t a cast on his arm and a cut on his face. He wanted to go back to there being nothing between him and his uncle, when the worst thing that happened between them was swift rejection anytime he tried to forge a connection. He wanted to not be bothered so damn much when he opened his phones and found a thousand calls, texts, and emails from hundreds of different people and nothing from Augustus. He wanted to go back to when his biggest problem in the world was getting Noct out of bed, dressed, and made up in time for his father’s speech.

Most of all, he did not want to be alone.

**Ignis:** Why don’t I come to you?

**Prompto:** ok! ♥ ♥ ♥

**Ignis:** I’ll be there in about 15 minutes. Traffic pending, of course.

**Prompto:** o yea. such traffic, much jam. honk honk motherfucker

* * *

Oh, the advantage of assigned fleet vehicles: all of the mobility with none of the expense, and nobody to fuck with the seat, mirrors, or air.

Ignis put everything _exactly_ where he wanted it several months ago when it was first assigned to him. He programmed the radio with an even divide of his and Noct’s favorite stations, and the rest of the music came as CDs from Gladio and a flash drive full of utter musical chaos from Prompto. The car offered comfortable familiarity and the sense of something that was _his_ (even if it wasn’t). The only wrench in the gears came in the form of a broken bone: he had to find a rest for his casted arm, and was reduced to driving one-handed, and on occasional, he silently cursed Noct for infecting him with the bad habit steering with his knee.

Prompto’s home stood in a road that was more like a narrow alley or walkway; the neighborhood it stood in was firmly average, neither rich nor poor, but there was also a reason there were no driveways to park in. Ignis left the vehicle parked on a side street within window view of the Argentum home, and a streetlight lit his path to their door. It was one he’d walked plenty of times, but the purpose now was different; he was not picking Prompto up for Noct, and he was not going in to shake the boys awake because they were at risk of being late again. This time, he was walking up the lane entirely for himself.

Ignis paused as he rounded the gate.

Gods’ graves, what was he doing? Was he truly so desperate for company that he’d show up on someone’s doorstep at two in the morning? He hadn’t even told anyone he was leaving; what was Regis going to think when he found out? Would it be too presumptive to text him that he went to see Prompto? Would he think it was because of their conversation?

(Would Regis even _care?_ He was the King, he had bigger, better, more important things to worry about. That’s what Augustus would say, at least.)

He leaned on the stone gate, and pressed a hand over his face.

What was he even _doing?_

Ignis snapped his head up as a door opened, and sunshine poured out from inside.

There was Prompto Argentum, grinning ear to ear; he still had his glasses on and was dressed in an absolute eye-searing tie-dye shirt and black running shorts that piqued his own curiosity just a little too much; blonde hair fell all around his face, fresh and unbrushed after a shower. The interior of the home behind him was dark – save for what looked like the glow from a TV screen – and Ignis felt his heart thud slightly harder in his chest.

It was Prompto. _Only_ Prompto. He was sweet like sugar, always smelled good, always smiled, and he was good for Noct. The doubt fled from his chest, like birds shaken from a tree.

“Hey Iggy,” Prompto said, unquestioning. “Come on in.”

It’d be rude to refuse an invitation, ruder still to not respond or acknowledge it. But he simply couldn’t think of what to say. So Ignis went with the safest response he knew and pushed off the wall, approaching the much-smaller blond boy as he moved out of the doorway to let him in.

“Thank you, Prompto.” Those simple words had too much weight to them, he thought.

Prompto closed the door behind him. Ignis slipped off his shoes by habit and nudged them to set neatly nearby. The house was small, just big enough for one (or two, if they were close), and everything was neat; countertops wiped off, throw blanket folded on the back of the couch, the coffee table clear of everything except a water bottle and a salt lamp. The rugs were vacuumed, floor swept, windows washed, and the sliding door by the television was open for air. If he could only have one single wish in the whole world, it would be for Prompto’s housekeeping skills to rub off on Noct.

“You want something to drink?” Prompto padded to the kitchen on bare feet, already getting a glass from the cupboard.

“Just water. Thank you.”

“No problem.” The younger boy stuck the cup under the filter in the fridge door and the little spout trickled out a steady stream. “Sit anywhere you want. I was just playing games.”

The Citadel was so vastly different from the meager little home and his own manor. The manor tended to be more decoration than comfort, and the Citadel always had places with explicitly clear purposes: rooms for meetings, gyms for training, chairs that were for the King only, chairs for decoration only. Here though—here, Ignis hadn’t ever been a casual guest. He served as an extension of Noct, a tag-along at best and worst.

There was a second blanket on the couch, rumpled up and old and slightly faded, though still colorful. It looked like the kind blanket that Prompto would snuggle up in. So Ignis sat near it, leaned an elbow on his knee, and tucked his casted arm close to himself.

Prompto brought him the glass and flopped right where the blanket was when he took it, covering himself again and taking a controller from its folds. Ignis sipped his water, taking two careful measured drinks to be polite before setting it on the table and turning his eyes to the television. Bright-colored pixels covered the screen from corner to corner, the greens bright and yellows too intense, and he watched a little 8-bit avatar walk from here to there. It had chocobo-colored hair, violet eyes, and Prompto methodically directed it around a wide area with fruit trees, a pond, and little green crops with purple sprinklers strategically spread around; there were yellow chocobo chicks that wandered about – one was blue with curly little pixel feathers, another was dark grey with red eyes – and small garulas in fences and pens.

The more Ignis watched him play, the more intrigued he was. This was nothing like the shooting arcade games he saw Noct and Prompto frequent.

“What are you playing?”

“Stardew Valley,” Prompto said without pause, “it’s kinda like a farming simulator, but it’s not really that either. It’s more like a combination of a bunch of other games. You can farm or go to the mines to fight monsters or make friends with everyone. I’ve seen some people play it just to max out how much money they can make in a season or try to get every single trophy.” He shrugged. “I just like to…play. I don’t really wanna max out stuff or get the best weapons or fight every single monster in the mines. I just wanna have fun, you know?”

Ignis didn’t know. He shifted on the couch, leaning a little more weight onto the back, and kept the cast close to him.

“Who is that?” he nodded at the sprite standing by the pixel-fridge in the pixel-house. Black hair, black clothing, light skin, surely it wasn’t—

“Sebastian.” Prompto’s grin returned full-force, partnered with pink blooming under his speckled cheeks as he turned to look at him. “You can marry some of the townies too. He’s one of the harder ones to get because—“

It was like someone cut his vocal cords. He was looking at the narrow bandage on his cheek; the broken blood vessels in his eye; the blue bruises beneath medical tape.

Ignis looked the other way towards the kitchen and puffed a harder exhale through his nose. It was almost a sigh, but not quite. Maybe he was tired. Maybe it was a mistake.

Maybe he should leave.

“—because,” Prompto babbled on, explicitly avoiding talking about it, “he holes himself up in his room all day and you can’t get in except at certain times. His prompts can be kinda hard too but he’s my favorite because he reminds me of Noct.”

Prompto babbled some more about the game; about how Sebastian-not-Noct used to have a blue bong in his room but it got changed to a vase at some point because players in Niflheim were getting nailed with fines for drug paraphernalia, and how the cross over the clinic was changed because of some real-life warfare rule, and how he loved that the crappy Jojamart building was turned into a movie theatre instead. He babbled about the chocobo chicks and fishing game and something about a night market and dwarves and an entity called Yoba. Either he’d run out of things to babble about (unlikely) or his focus finally shifted fully back to the game so that he no longer had the brain cells to waste on talking (more likely).

Ignis looked out of the corner of his eye. The music and scene changed; wind instruments replaced rustling leaves and chirping birds, and the vibrant green that once filled the screen was now brilliant bronze and gold. Blobs of purple bounced around and Prompto’s sprite shot a red dot at it, exploding on impact. The big blob broke into three smaller blobs, each with antennae, and he picked them off the same way, then went around collecting the resulting treasure by simply walking by it.

“Where are you now?”

“Skull Cavern. The main mine only has 120 levels, but Skull Cavern is bottomless. The further down you go, the better the treasure and the stronger the enemies.”

“What are the purple … things?”

“Iridium stones! You break them open to get iridium – it’s kinda like mythril but purple – and you use them to make all sorts of stuff, like sprinklers and weapons and stuff for the farm.” Prompto turned back to him, his smile full-force sunshine again and hands suddenly loose on the controller, half-heartedly holding it outwards him. “You wanna play? It’s easy and I can start a new file.”

Ignis pursed his lips, looking down at the controller. Ergonomic, smooth, pristine black and white plastic. It fit neatly in Prompto’s hands and would fit easily in his own—if only—

“I’d love to,” he said, voice too soft, “but I can’t.”

Here, Prompto frowned. A basket of puppies had nothing on Prompto’s confused frowns. Ignis lifted his casted hand from his body slightly and looked down to draw the blond boy’s attention to it, wiggling his fingers in the printed plastic. The physician, with full knowledge of broken bones, Crownsguard pride (and Ignis himself) printed the cast over his palm, encased his thumb, and continued it all the way up to the first knuckle so he couldn’t hold or grab _anything._

“Oh,” Prompto said sheepishly, controller receding.

“I don’t mind watching,” Ignis went on, tucking it against himself again. “Do you play this with Noct?”

“Nah. He always goes for the survival games and railroad shooters.” The screen, once paused, now continued and Prompto zeroed in on a dinosaur-looking creature. If Ignis didn’t know better, he thought he saw the younger boy shift and squeeze a little closer to him too.

“I was under the impression you preferred them.”

Prompto shrugged again. “Yeah, I like ‘em, but not _just_ them. Sometimes I just wanna water flowers and grow veggies and relax. You know?” The screen cleared of enemies, he turned to Ignis again. “What do you play, Igs?”

“I—“ Oh, what a loaded question it was, but it was Prompto, and Prompto hadn’t asked about his cheek or arm or eye or why he vanished for two straight days. It was only Prompto, sweet and pure as sugar. Even Noct felt safe around him. Ignis took in a breath, released it as he spoke, and prayed the lack of questions would continue. “I was never allowed to play video games.”

Prompto didn’t miss a beat. “What about now? Can you?”

… _could_ he? It was his turn to frown. Well, it wasn’t as if Augustus was ever going to be happy or satisfied with him. He made that fact _painfully_ clear.

“I suppose I could, when I am able to hold a controller.”

“You think we could get Noct to play Stardew too??”

Ignis felt something creep into his chest as Prompto beamed at him, outshining the sun in his black-framed glasses and tie-dye shirt. It was something … warm. Soft. _Fond_. That was it, a feeling of fondness—of peace. A feeling that he would be all right. That even with his cheek cut open, his right hand and arm bound in a cast, and all the bruises that littered his skin and heart, he would be all right. _They_ would be all right. 

“I think he could be convinced.”

Still Prompto smiled like someone handed him the whole world on a plate, and Ignis could not stop the smile that pulled back the corners of his mouth. Then without warning, Prompto tossed the controller onto the table and clambered over, a mass of knees and elbows and exposed skin that shoved his broken arm right out of the way to make space as he deposited himself on Ignis’s thighs. He turned so they faced each other, skinny arms snaking under the under man’s and face planting right into his chest, and he squeezed.

A lifetime of Crownsguard and Kingsglaive training did not prepare him for this. It did not prepare him for what to do when a family member lashed out at him, and it did not prepare him for what to do when Prompto Argentum inserted himself into his lap. Without thinking, Ignis wrapped himself around Prompto too, and the blond youth in his lap kept his grip, the corner of his glasses pressing painfully into his shoulder. It didn’t matter though – nothing on Eos mattered as much as the way Prompto hugged him now. It felt _good_ to be hugged like that. After a day of anger, accusations, arguing, pain, and too many emotions flooding out at once, then two more of loneliness, fear, and isolation, it felt like Prompto weaseled under his skin and was going around inside of him picking up the sharp pieces and patching up wounds – another Oracle in his own way.

“Hey Iggy,” he suddenly said, muffled by shoulder. Ignis parted his lips to reply, but Prompto shifted in his lap and went on without waiting. “Look, I—I dunno what happened and I know you don’t wanna talk about it. You don’t gotta. But the guys, they’re really worried about you and…I just want you to know that…you don’t gotta tell me or explain anything. And if you need anything, you can ask. I won’t ask why. Okay?”

Quiet followed. Ignis focused on breathing; he breathed in Prompto. The smallest of them all, the youngest, and the newest. He still smelled like his shower; hard water on his skin, citrus-vanilla in his hair, plain laundry soap on his clothes. He started to squeeze the smaller boy, but loosened his bad arm when the pressure shocked his wrist.

“Okay.” Augustus would’ve switched his hand for that. ‘Okay’ was informal and improper. Never say ‘okay’ to _anyone_. “Thank you, Prompto.”

“Anytime, Igster. I just want you to be all right.” Prompto squeezed him again then leaned back so their eyes met, grinning again. “You wanna stay over? It’s, like, almost three.”

“My apologies, but I didn’t bring anything to sleep in.” He brushed a blond strand out of Prompto’s eyes, tucking it behind the arm of his glasses.

“So?” Prompto one-shoulder shrugged. “I don’t usually sleep in anything.” His freckled cheeks reddened again. “You can borrow something from my dad. He left a bunch of stuff here.”

_Something_ about that phrasing felt…odd. Final. Then Ignis realized he never heard Prompto breathe a word about his fosterers until now. And where were they?

He smoothed Prompto’s bare thigh. They just agreed to ‘no questions’ together, and prying into where his parents were was asking questions.

“Let’s see what he has then.”

The dresser in the parents’ rooms hadn’t been opened in months. It smelled like cheap pressed wood and the clothes inside were musty and indistinct. Everything left behind by the foster father was replaceable. Cheap undershirts with holes in the seams and grey stains under the arms; pants with broken zippers or missing buttons, turned brown along the waistband from rubbing on skin; jeans worn at the knees, stained with what looked like red clay, dried blood, and smears of what might be grout or cement. Pawing through the old clothes nailed Prompto’s foster father as some sort of laborer. The grout marks on the knees of a particular pair of worker’s pants made Ignis suspect he was a tile setter, and part him wondered how close he worked to the Citadel, and if he’d been one of the many that set the massive granite tiles in the lobby.

There were no pajamas. Ignis wasn’t exactly disappointed. He didn’t dislike or feel any disdain or superiority toward common laborers, but…he didn’t exactly want to wear someone else’s old sweat against his skin either. Prompto disappeared for a little while to find a spare toothbrush, so Ignis indulged his inherent curiosity a little more by opening the closet.

There was damn near nothing there either. Three lonely, abandoned hangers and a slip for a woman’s dress. When he checked the tag, it was polyester. _Nice_ polyester, but still polyester. He slid the mirror door closed again before he could be caught snooping.

“I got a toothbrush,” Prompto announced from the hall bathroom. “You find anything?”

“Nothing,” Ignis lied through perfect teeth. “You will have to forgive me for not having cute boxers like yours.”

“It’s cool. I’ll get you cute boxers for your birthday!”

Ignis snorted. It felt good to laugh again.

They bedded down together in Prompto’s twin. It was not unlike the week he spent sleeping with Noct when he moved into his apartment, but the bed was smaller here and there were different, more challenging logistics. Citadel beds were huge and the last couple nights he spent on his stomach, but now the mattress was smaller, the blankets were thinner and not as heavy, and Prompto had to arrange himself so that they didn’t crowd his cast. Finally they found a comfortable position with Ignis’s busted arm laid atop Prompto’s side and Prompto pressed his cheek against his collar and turned his nose and mouth up into the space above his shoulder for air. Their legs wound together and when they settled, Ignis found that holding Prompto truly wasn’t much different from holding Noct. Prompto was a little smaller and more muscular and pliable, but the way they held each other was familiar.

Prompto fell asleep first. After what felt like hours of lying there listening to him breathe, Ignis finally followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter preview...  
> ===============
> 
> Prompto _hated_ crying.
> 
> But he just couldn’t _stop_.


	6. Same Blood

Damn everything that ever betrayed him. Weak pots of coffee, car washes that left dingy spots on his windshield, dishwashers that left soap spots at the bottom of drinking glasses, Augustus for his bullshit, and his bones for breaking. Now he cursed his own body too, waking at precisely 5:30am despite falling asleep just before four.

Then again, Ignis thought, he _did_ sleep through almost the entirety of yesterday.

The body in his arms dissolved the cloud of anger before it had the chance to solidify: Prompto, and only Prompto.

He petted yellow hair. Neither of them moved in the past hour, and Prompto was still solidly asleep. Without school, guard training, chores, or whatever other bullshit Ignis filled his own stupid life with, Prompto had no reason to wake up early. Or maybe he did and he was just as bad as Noct about getting up on time. Whatever it was, Ignis was just glad he was asleep and could watch his face, pet his hair, and indulge in touching him a little.

Touch he did. His casted hand was the only free one, but he at least had feeling in his fingers and fingertips. He ran them along the subtle curve of Prompto’s side – elbow awkwardly cocked outward – and felt along the peaks and valleys of his ribs, and followed the swells and lines of muscle over his back. He reached as far down as he could, skipping over the soft cotton of Prompto’s shorts and touched his thigh before skimming up his front.

Prompto tensed then relaxed, but never woke. He sighed and tucked his face down into the pillow.

Sometimes he woke Noct like this. If they weren’t late or had somewhere to be, or if he was just feeling indulgent, he’d wake the Prince by touching and kissing him and roll him this way and that way while he was malleable and agreeable, and turn his sleepy breaths into little gasps as he brought him to completion. It put them both in a good mood in the morning. Already Ignis found he wanted to do it again.

He wanted to do it to Prompto, too.

When the heat flushed from his face, Ignis knew he had to stop. He kissed Prompto’s cheek and carefully extracted himself from both boy and bed and tucked the blanket back around him before leaving the bedroom on silent, bare feet.

His cheek and teeth ached from the press of the pillow. He stood before the bathroom mirror to wash his hands after relieving himself, and peered closely at the discoloration that spread out from under the bandage and tape. Both were starting to look a little tattered; lint caught under the edges of the tape where it started to lift and the edges of the gauze was dividing. Ignis flexed the muscle; the pain deepened and his teeth throbbed, but it wasn’t…worse. It felt normal – as normal as it could be, anyway.

He picked at the edge of the strip and peeled it back.

The cut itself browned over – scabbed, deep and ugly like scabs always were – but it was nothing compared to the bruise that surrounded it. Deep red and purple, and the swelling, gods’ graves the _swelling_. The result of the strike almost hurt more than knowing who did it, but there was nothing to be done about it now. He’d have to cut a new strip of a nonstick pad and patch over it again later.

Ignis left the washroom with a sigh. He padded back to the bedroom, pulled on his undershirt, picked up his phone, and wandered back out to the main room without any idea what to do in someone else’s house. He had nowhere to be, no place to go, and no demands of him that day.

Coffee felt reassuring and normal – even though he had to search for it.

The first thing Ignis noticed as he pawed through Prompto’s cupboards was how bare they all were; there were ramen packs and cup noodles, canned vegetables, crackers, and plenty of generic spices, but little actual foodstuff. The coffee tin was shoved all the way in the back and expired two years ago, but smelled fine when he opened it, and Ignis paused when he realized he only had one of the three things he needed. Coffee still required hot water and filters and if Prompto’s parents were absent, their coffee tin expired and forgotten, and his cabinets bare … then he probably didn’t have filters.

Thankfully Prompto was a more attentive housekeeper than Noct; paper towels worked in place of a filter, and he washed and cleaned the electric kettle before heating the water and pouring it over makeshift pouch of grounds, and stood waiting in the small kitchen as it steeped.

He took in the state of the home and all that he’d seen and all that Prompto said and did: _My dad left some stuff here_ with a tone of finality, as if the man wasn’t expected to come back; the part-time job in addition to school; poor grades, low marks, and disciplinary actions despite absence of behavioral problems. Those were things that teachers often wanted to talk to parents about – but who did they talk to when the parents were absent?

Ignis frowned into the empty room. Prompto was alone. How on Eos did he ever miss that?

He took the paper towel filters and grounds out of the cup, drank the godawful result, washed and replaced the cup, and snuck back into the parents’ room.

The closet was devoid of anything helpful. The drawers were empty aside from random bits of lint, the bedding was so old and well-washed that the tags were too faded to read, the lone hanging slip only had a tag for fiber content, and the trash bin was so unused that it didn’t even have a liner. That left him digging through the father’s remains instead.

He checked for tags. He checked pockets. He looked for logos and lot numbers. He cursed every time he had to stick his arm out awkwardly to get into a pocket and cursed again under his breath when he grabbed something too tight and shocked himself with pain. Ambidexterity didn’t mean _shit_ when only one hand worked properly.

Finally, he found something more helpful than a painfully generic brand or lot number: a receipt. Old and faded as every other tag in the room, but the ink fared slightly better on the thermal paper than anything else. Pink lines streaked across it in warning that the roll was running out, and the items bought were generic purchases from a gas station: a 64oz refill, two candy bars, jerky, 16oz coffee, two breakfast burritos, cigarettes, and 20 Crowns worth of fuel, all paid in cash. The timestamp put it firmly at 5:13am – two years ago.

Ignis sighed as he sat back on his heels. When had the foster father left? Why did he leave? Where was he now? Did the school have a number for him?

Did Prompto?

He scanned the rumpled mass of clothing like it might have the answer. It sank in like lead: no. No one had the father’s number. If they did, the school would’ve called it, and Prompto wouldn’t have so many hours in detention, and he would have _said something_. He would not have said _my dad left some stuff here_ like he never expected to see or hear from him again.

A bone-deep ached crept into his eye and teeth; he realized too late that he was clenching his jaw. Before that came another realization: he couldn’t leave Prompto alone like this.

He had to do something.

* * *

It was half-past ten when the hour of sleep caught up with him, and Ignis found himself slipping as he scrolled on his phone. He gave up on staying awake at all and set it face-down next to him on the couch, propped his feet up on the floor pouf, and let himself nod off. He never heard the rustle of activity from the bedroom, and only briefly woke up when a familiar body deposited itself against his: Prompto.

“Mmmorniiiiing,” Prompto sang, nuzzling hard into his chest. Ignis couldn’t stop himself from chuckling, neither could he resist the natural instinct to put his arms around him. Prompto was still warm from the bed and redressed in the same clothes from yesterday – tie-dye shirt and little running shorts that were just a little _too_ interesting – and lifted his face from his chest to his neck, pressing his nose in and breathing deeply. Ignis felt the press of his glasses against his jugular and only offered a small smile as Prompto sniffed in days-old cologne. Gods, he needed to shower.

“You smell good,” Prompto said.

“Do I? What do I smell like?”

“Mmmmm sandalwood.” _Sniff_. “And stone.” _Sniiiifffff._ “And a little like … like yourself.”

Ignis chuckled again. Prompto nosed around his neck and jaw, pushing his head this way and that. “How do ‘I’ smell?”

“A little spicy. A little musky.” Prompto planted his nose firmly in the joint of his shoulder, sniffing again. “It’s hard to describe.” A beat passed. Ignis snaked his good hand along the band of the running shorts, thumbing the hem of the colorful shirt before dropping it and smoothing up over his back instead. “You just—“ Prompto went on, either apathetic or oblivious. “—you just smell really good all the time.”

“Well, thank you,” Ignis said, suddenly warmer than he’d felt in days. Prompto stuffed his nose into his neck again, so Ignis nuzzled into his hair, finally indulging in the opportunity to pull in deep lungfuls of citrus-vanilla. “Your hair smells wonderful.”

“It better. That shit’s ten crowns a bottle. _Each._ ”

“Ten crowns? What in Lucis are you using that’s so expensive?”

“Broo. It’s got hops and barley in it and like fancy oils or some shit. I dunno, but it makes my hair smell good and you said so, so I’m gonna keep using it.”

Prompto smiled against his neck, and Ignis caught himself laughing again. Gods, how different he felt – how much _better_. Yesterday he sported a bruised ego, wounded pride, and didn’t want to do anything that wasn’t sleep and ignore everyone. Now Prompto – who was very much _Noct’s_ friend, not his – was halfway in his lap again and they were talking about shampoo.

He squeezed him around the waist with his good arm.

“Would you like breakfast?”

Prompto made a thoughtful, endearing little humming noise. “Mmmdunwannagetup.”

“I know.” Still he rubbed his back. “I don’t either.”

“Then we shouldn’t.”

“For the first time, I find your logic indisputable.” Ignis rubbed between Prompto’s shoulderblades to press him closer, then patted his arm. “Up for a moment.”

Prompto sat up. He obviously full well expected to be abandoned there on the couch while Ignis would leave to do whatever he did when he was finished cuddling – but to his pleasure, Ignis did _not_ get up. He sat up instead and grabbed the nearby pillow and propped it on the arm of the couch, then plucked the colorful blanket off the floor and handed it over, then swung his six-miles-long legs up onto the couch, lying longways on his back and tapped his chest with a smile. That was an _invitation_ if Prompto ever saw one, and King Regis strike him dead if he refused.

Prompto beamed, draped the blanket over his back and dove in. He settled on top of Ignis, who seemed to have done this a thousand times, and hummed happily as their bodies slotted together like puzzle pieces. Ignis adjust the blanket to fully cover both of them, then laid his arms carefully on his back; his good hand settled on the back of Prompto’s skull, combed into blonde hair, and the casted one simply rested against his side.

The warmth was overwhelming. Ignis breathed it in – breathed _Prompto_ in, and everything he was, but above all, he soaked in the _feeling_ of him; the trust, the comfort, the love, the loneliness—

Wait. Love?

He curled the hand in blond hair, and Prompto nuzzled their faces (and glasses) together. If Prompto felt the rough, dry edges of the cut, he didn’t acknowledge it, and Ignis silently bore the throb in his cheek, eye, and teeth. The pain in his face distracted him from the pain in his heart, and he flinched when the arm of Prompto’s black glasses pinched the sensitive skin on his neck.

If Prompto noticed, he didn’t react.

“You cuddle like this often, Igster?”

“It is Noct’s favorite position,” Ignis said, impressed with the steadiness of his own voice. “He tells me he feels safe and loved this way.”

“Oh.” Prompto, face hidden, bit his lip and smiled into Ignis’s shoulder. So … Noct _did_ like to cuddle, and not always just with him. He felt his face flush and Ignis must have too, judging by the squeeze.

“He lies with you like this as well, does he not?”

“…yeah.” Prompto pressed his face into the other man’s neck again. “Every time we watch a movie, he lays his head on my chest or in my lap.”

“That’s good. It means he doesn’t want you to leave.”

Prompto felt his entire face go red; he turned it down and smushed it into the pillow before Ignis could feel the heat, but it was too late; Iggy was laughing softly at him again, his one good hand running up and down the side of his back, fingertips brushing the bumps of his spine through his shirt.

They fell into a comfortable quiet. Prompto didn’t know what to say anymore, and Ignis didn’t feel the need to pry conversation from him as they lie on the couch, slotted together like pieces of a puzzle. Prompto was soft in all the right places and equally warm with a shape and weight similar to Noct – so similar that despite the foreign couch and room, Ignis felt himself nearly nod off.

“…hey Iggy?” Prompto said suddenly, sheepish and shy.

“Yes, Prompto.”

“Does Noct ever talk about me?”

Ignis hummed, groggy, foggy, and tired. His hand came to rest at the slope of the younger boy’s back and hip where he felt a sliver of skin and natural warmth, and he stared dazedly off as he searched his memory, looking for the answer Prompto wanted.

“When you first met, he talked about you all the time. You were his first friend outside the Citadel and later thought you didn’t like him anymore because you never spoke to him and you stopped waiting with him after school. When I offered to come earlier, he said he was fine because he wasn’t waiting for me. He was waiting for you.”

Suddenly, Prompto was still and quiet. Ignis rubbed up his back again, fingertips pressing down.

“He doesn’t talk about you, no, but his behavior does. He smiles more when he is with you. He’s not as tense and he eats more when you come to see him and he sleeps better at night when you stay over. He worries about you when you miss school or don’t answer his texts. He was never good at keeping track of his phone, but he started carrying it all the time after you exchanged numbers. When the screen broke and he needed a new one made, he _demanded_ it have a good camera because he wanted to impress you.”

Not only was Prompto still; his face was warm too. Ignis felt the heat of freckled cheeks as they pressed on his neck.

“Noct has never been good at talking about how he feels, Prompto, but he does show it. It’s hard to see if you don’t know what to look for, but I assure you: he _treasures_ you.”

Prompto’s breath was slow on his collar; his back rose and fell with the rhythm of his lungs, but that was all. Finally, he shifted slightly, an arm wriggling around and under his shoulders to hold as Ignis held him.

“I—“ he started, then cut himself off. He took in a deep breath and let it out as a long, self-soothing sigh. “I just … wanna be good for him, you know?”

The hand on his back was slow, encouraging; Ignis dragged it up from that sliver of skin on the other’s hip to his shoulderblades, then down again, rubbing with the same pressure and firmness that he used on Noct. It kept him awake for the time being, that constant movement and motion…

“How do you mean?”

“Like. Like…” Blonde eyelashes fluttered, brushing Ignis’s neck. “I want to be … _good_ for him. Not like well-behaved or anything, but like ... I want him to be happy. I wanna see him smile. I know he’s got all that shit going on with his dad and the war and an entire country on top of him and I can’t do anything about all that, but … if I can at least get him to come to the arcade with me and play games and that’s the only time of day that he’s happy … I’m all right with that.”

Prompto’s breath was warm on his neck as he trailed off, and both of them fell into quiet. Ignis watched the ceiling as he collected everything he knew of the body lying on top of him; missing parents, bad grades, endless detentions … and a peasant’s heart worth more than its weight in gold.

“I just want him to be happy.”

Ignis stared hard at the ceiling. His broken wrist and bruised teeth and chest all ached at once.

This was dangerous. Prompto was unguarded; no parents, no guardians, apathetic adults, few friends, and no family. He was close to Noct, the Crown Prince of Lucis, and Niflheim still waged war on all life outside the Wall. Someday they would try to breach the gates. Someday they would look for a way in. And Prompto was in love with the Prince.

And Prompto was _alone._

Ignis clenched his hands the best he could and squeezed him closer. Niflheim would never have Prompto and neither would anyone else. No one would ever abandon him again.

“You _are_ good for him, Prompto. You make him happy.” He pressed his cheek against blond hair and ignored the thunderous pain that coursed through his face. It was only good for keeping him awake. “You make _me_ happy as well by just being who you are.”

As he squeezed, Prompto squeezed back, but it was … weaker. Like he didn’t quite believe it, or he was afraid to. He kept his face hidden too, and his breathing was careful, measured; five seconds in, five seconds out. Finally, the smaller body sat up and Ignis found indigo eyes looking at him – searching, the frown of disbelief carving into Prompto’s elven face. Ignis raised his good hand and rested his palm on his cheek, thumbing over the freckles under those big violet eyes.

“I have never lied to you, Prompto, and I never will.”

Prompto’s jaw clenched under his hand. He looked down, but said nothing. Finally, he nodded, numb and dumbstruck, and laid back down with their chests together, brow pressed into Ignis’s neck and cheek on his collar, eyes closed as it all sank in.

…and quiet settled over them again. Prompto’s breath was warm on his neck and Ignis petted his back like he’d done it a thousand times before, green eyes sliding closed. As he breathed in the smell of skin and sandalwood, Prompto wondered how many times Ignis and Noct laid like this; he wondered why they did it and what started it. He wondered if it was years or months ago that they cuddled for the first time.

…and some little nosey, hormonal part of him wondered if they’d ever kissed. If Ignis felt his face heat again, he didn’t react to it; his hands stilled some time ago and as Prompto thought about that, he realized he’d heard him sigh too. His breathing was slow and even too – like, _really_ even.

Prompto opened his eyes, lifted his head, and looked up. Ignis was asleep again. Broken down, worn out, and tattered by whatever cut open his face, broke one arm and bruised open the other…he was asleep. He must be exhausted, Prompto thought as he lay down again, pulling the blanket a little higher. Now he wondered what happened; what could be so traumatic to Ignis that he’d run away from everyone except the King?

And why, of all people, of Gladio and Noct and all the other, better, more important in his life that he could go to, why did he come to him? Prompto wasn’t a stranger to unanswered invitations and he hadn’t expected a response at all when he texted Iggy at 2am. He didn’t expect the invitation of company to be accepted – he didn’t expect _this._

Little by little, inch by inch, limb by limb, Prompto extracted himself from the warmth of the other man’s body and laid the blanket over him again once on his feet. He straightened his own glasses, delicately removed Iggy’s and put them on the coffee table, and spent the rest of the late morning puttering about as quietly as he knew how.

He checked his cupboards and fridge and freezer with a notepad in hand and made lists of what he needed; he kicked open cabinets (then kicked himself for making so much noise but Ignis didn’t move) and closed them again carefully, then wiped off the stove and counters and hand-washed the dishes as quietly as he could. Dirty clothes went in the washer but it wasn’t started. He plugged in his camera and game controllers and put the discs away properly and straightened the cases on the shelf. He picked up his bedroom, straightened the bedding and fluffed his pillows, then made a new list on the next page of his notepad of chores he’d need to do if Ignis stayed the night again. He’d need clean sheets (possibly new ones altogether, depending) and to put all the pillows in the wash, maybe even a spare set of pajamas (what size did Ignis even wear? He was tall like Gladio but lacked the bulk), and if he was going to get him pajamas, he may as well get the cute boxers too (but would that be too much?).

Prompto didn’t need for much most of the time; it was mostly odds and ends here and there, but guests always added extras to his shopping list and frankly, he hadn’t planned on shopping at all today. At the same time, he was fairly certain Iggy didn’t plan on falling asleep on his couch either. He adjusted his glasses as he flipped through the notepad, reviewing the chores and the lists and pausing at his shopping list. If Iggy didn’t bring a change of clothes … he probably didn’t bring anything for that cut on his face either. Or his arm, or those bruises, or anything to shower with, and he probably wouldn’t be happy with one-crown-store soap or lotion. Hell, Prompto could barely stand that shit most days himself. He’d probably like some Ebony too.

He tapped the pen on the notepad as he stood in the middle of his bedroom. Reviewed his list. Scribbled in the extra toiletries, first aid items, and coffee. Chewed on the cap of the pen.

Yeah. He could make this work. 

Prompto left a note on the table over Ignis’s glasses before he left. No way he’d miss it there, right? But when he came back, backpack full and bags hanging off his arms, he wasn’t upset to see that the effort was wasted; Iggy was still dead asleep on his couch; glasses, note, and everything else untouched. The only change was where he fell asleep on his back, now he slept on his side and faced the wall, slightly curled.

Kinda like Noct, actually. The similarity made him grin. Prim, perfect, buttoned-up Ignis slept just like the lazyass cat of a Prince.

He put everything away; cup noodles, instant ramen, and canned shit in the cupboard with the bag of rice; medical tape, nonstick pads, antibiotic, aspirin, and a four-pack of canned Ebony by Iggy’s glasses, and put butter, eggs, and cheap produce in the fridge and the frozen bags of veggies and pancakes in the freezer. He kept a box of mac ’n’ cheese out and set a pot of water to boil on the stove, and leaned in the counter with his phone to wait.

The screen was cracked to hell, but a protector kept the whole thing from falling apart or stabbing his thumbs with glass shards. Notifications lined the top bar – mostly games or apps he didn’t use anymore – and he dismissed them all without even looking and opened his texts instead. The thread with all four of them went silent the morning Ignis went missing, but the one with him, Noct, and Gladio had a few unread messages.

♥ **Noct** ♥ : dad talked to him yesterday he says hes ok

**Big Guy** : Did he say anything else? What happened?

♥ ** Noct **♥ : he’s letting him take some time off and not to bug him. wbu?

**Big Guy:** Not a damn word. I have no idea what’s going on and Dad changed my guard schedule so I’m never in the same room as Augustus. He fucking did something to him, I know it

♥ ** Noct **♥ : what do u think happened?

**Big Guy:** Same shit that’s been happening for years.

♥ ** Noct **♥ : you think he … you know

**Big Guy:** I’ll bet money the jackass did.

Prompto drew in a deep breath and looked up at the couch where Ignis slept. Up until this point, Ignis seemed unstoppable; now he was exhausted, injured, and hiding. Prompto chewed his lip, and tapped out and deleted several messages. How did he reply without giving Ignis away? Gladio wasn’t stupid and Noct would eventually find two braincells to rub together and figure out that _he_ knew something they didn’t.

**Prompto:** maybe you guys should just back off and let him have space

The pot was boiling. Prompto made to put his phone down when it dinged again immediately. Looking again made the blood rush from his head.

♥ ** Noct **♥ : IS HE WITH YOU???

Well. So much for subtlety.

Prompto slammed his phone face-down on the counter and rubbed his head, glasses pushed up to get at his eyes. Fuck, he just— _fuck_. They knew now and they both knew where he lived and _any damn minute_ they’d both come break down the door to his house trying to get to Ignis. Ignis _trusted_ him and now he’d given him away. He should’ve— _fuck—_ he should’ve just stayed quiet and let them worry or wonder because they weren’t nearly as bad off as Iggy was and now they were going to storm his house with the entire Crownsguard and wake up Ignis and pester the fuck out of him because he _couldn’t keep his stupid mouth shut._

He put his glasses back on properly, sniffed, and turned to pour the pasta into the water. When he checked his phone, there were no more messages, but any delay would definitely have Gladio busting a door or window in less than minutes.

**Prompto:** yeah, he’s here. he’s ok, don’t worry.

Immediate dings. He looked at Ignis asleep on the couch again. He couldn’t stop them from knowing anymore, but … maybe he could at least stop them from coming over and pestering him.

**Big Guy:** Did he say what happened? Is he hurt?

**Prompto:** no hes fine. it’s like i told you. leave him alone. he’ll come out when he’s ready.

**Big Guy:** Funny. That’s what my dad said.

♥ ** Noct **♥ :  my dad too…

**Prompto:** maybe you should listen to your parents for a change

**Big Guy:** Can you send us a picture? I just want to know that he’s okay. Please?

Prompto looked at Iggy again. Sleeping. He thought about the cut on his cheek and the red in his eye, the bruising – gods, the bruises. Those _had_ to hurt. He looked down and typed another quick reply.

**Prompto:** hes busy rn but i’ll ask him in a lil bit. Ok?

**Big Guy:** Okay. Don’t leave us hanging.

Prompto puffed out his cheeks and sighed as he put his phone face-down on the counter. Crisis averted. Now he’d just have to tell Iggy.

Boxed mac n cheese was infinitely easier than dodging a stressed-out Prince and a Crownsguard who thought he was the Hulk. Pour the pasta, stir, drain, add butter, milk, and seasoning, done. It wasn’t gourmet Citadel-style food, but it was something. He left the heat on as he padded over to Ignis and crouched at his back, peeling back the blanket a little bit.

“Hey,” he whispered gently. Ignis didn’t move at first, and Prompto wondered if he slept like Noct, could he wake him like Noct too? Or did he wake up like Gladio, half-ready to fight if in an unfamiliar place? Iggy didn’t seem like the type to crash on couches regularly and he knew for a fact that Noct shared the bed with him when he stayed over. Best to be cautious then.

“Iggy,” Prompto tried again, and touched his shoulder, shaking slightly. He was rewarded with a sharp inhale and Ignis shifted, stretching out what was previously bent, and Prompto leaned in to hug him through the blanket. “Wakey wakey, sleeping handsome. Lunchtime.”

“You are so sweet,” mumbled Ignis, stretching his wide shoulder as the other boy nuzzled into it. Prompto sat back on his heels as he sat up and woke the rest of the way, rubbing at his good eye and cheek with care. Ignis looked different without his hair done and glasses on. Younger. More … vulnerable. More like a person and less like an employee.

Prompto smiled, hopeful. “I got you some Ebony.” He grabbed the box off the table behind him and held it out for show. “Thought you could use a pick-me-up.”

“Oh,” said Ignis, half-sleepy and half-thoughtful as he took it, like no one else in the world ever bought him coffee. “Thank you, Prompto. That’s very kind of you.”

“Anytime. C’mon, lunch.”

Prompto put his hand out to help Iggy off the couch like he needed it and, bless him, Ignis actually took it. He sat at the table that no one ate at any other time and Prompto dished out their lunch into plain grey bowls with equally-plain spoons, the finish faded and silver dinged. He thought he should feel silly or stupid or … just … _inferior_ overall compared to the rest of them – Noct with ancestors he could trace back for generations, Gladio for his power and wealth at his disposal – but something about the text messages they exchanged just … they stuck out. Like, a lot. Iggy went into hiding the moment he was hurt and stopped talking to all of them, but … now he was there in his house, eating crappy peasant food out of old bowl with smudged utensils. He could’ve stayed at the Citadel instead and indulged in gourmet breakfasts and lunches instead with silverware expertly washed, shined, and sparkled. What did he have that the Citadel didn’t?

“What is in this?” Iggy said suddenly, snapping Prompto from his reflection. He was three bites in and chewing thoughtfully, and Prompto realized he hadn’t eaten at all yet.

“Oh. Uh.” He forced himself to grin. “Honeybutter and sriracha-garlic seasoning. Is it bad? I can make something else.”

“No, it’s really good. I wasn’t expecting it is all. You balanced the heat and honey very well.”

Prompto’s stomach dropped. Ignis was … _praising_ him? His _cooking_? It came out of a _box_ for fuck’s sake. He must’ve hit his head too.

“Th-thanks,” he stuttered, stirring the macaroni. “I... I try to use seasoning to make stuff more … y’know. Interesting.”

_Just stop talking,_ he snapped at himself. First he outed Iggy all over their group text and if he didn’t send a picture of him soon, they’d level his house to get to Ignis and now he was tripping all over himself over a stupid lunch of one-crown macaroni and cheese.

_Just stop fucking talking._

Prompto stared at his food as he stirred it. Then he forced himself to eat. He glanced up at Ignis every so often, who was fully awake again now and had his manners and upbringing on full display.

“I got you some other stuff too,” he said between bites. “Figured you probably wanna…” He pointed at his cheek.

“I do,” Ignis filled in. “Thank you. I appreciate how thoughtful you are, Prompto.”

Thoughtful. Yeah.

Thoughtful about outing him.

Prompto stirred rather than ate. Iggy was almost finished, and he’d barely touched his own food.

He needed to tell him what he’d done.

“Hey Iggy?”

“Yes, Prompto.”

“The guys… they’re really worried about you.”

Now Ignis was still too. Prompto watched him through his hair, head bowed. He kept stirring.

“I know,” Ignis said softly, sounding resigned.

“Um.” His mouth was dry. Head swimming. Well … Ignis was going to find out anyway, one of way or another. Gladio would throw a boulder through his window or Noct would swarm his house with Crownsguards – or he could just _tell him_ and get on with the ‘never trust him again’ part of their lives. “Hey Iggy?”

“Yes, Prompto.”

Prompto fidgeted. He stirred the pasta. Looked at his phone over on the counter. Then he heaved a sigh that could rival Titan himself, got up, got his phone, punched in the code to unlock it, opened the messages, and handed it over. Ignis took it with a curious frown, and Prompto threw himself back into the chair across from him as he read, arms folded on the table and chin planted on top to watch.

Ignis read fast; he could see his eyes skirting the short texts through the broken screen and within seconds, he’d read everything. Ignis was smart like that. Smart and cool and put together. And soon he’d walk right out that door, angry, and never come back and probably get sick from the boxed pasta too.

Instead, Ignis clicked the screen off and rested it between them with a calm sigh.

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Ignis forgave. Then he scooped the last spoonful of his bowl and ate it, calm as ever. Prompto watched and frowned and felt his guts twist up inside.

“You’re not mad?”

“Of course not, Prompto. You are right by all accounts. I should have told them I’m fine instead of hiding like this and putting you in the middle of it.”

Now Prompto _really_ frowned, brows and nose scrunching. He felt like something threw a wrench in his head and now he couldn’t think. Ignis wasn’t mad and he ate everything he’d made without complaint of how cheap or crappy it was or how the honeybutter wasn’t the right amount of sweet and he wasn’t telling him he couldn’t be friends with Noct anymore or … or anything else… Nothing was going the way he thought it would.

Then a dreadful, awful thought descended on him: maybe nothing was as bad as he thought it was.

Prompto chewed his lip.

“Hey Iggy?”

“Yes, Prompto.”

“Why are you hiding?”

Ignis stilled. Then his hand in the printed cast flexed and Prompto knew all at once about a name he’d only heard a few times, attached to a face he’d never seen and a personality he never experienced, but now printed on Ignis’s skin and wrapped around his arm. The source of all those bruises, all that damage, and all the underlying pain that he wouldn’t let the others see.

Augustus.

Prompto didn’t know a damn thing about Augustus. He wanted to think he knew now, but he didn’t. Augustus was Ignis’s uncle and only family member, sure, but what he knew of the man and what he saw of Ignis now didn’t make sense. If this was common or normal, wouldn’t Ignis have said something, done something? He wouldn’t let people just _wail_ on him like that, and even if he did, Gladio would rip a lamp post off the street and smash them with it. Right?

It just didn’t make sense.

It was Ignis’s turn to sigh. Prompto watched him inhale, chest expanding, then deflating, and Ignis straightened on the other side of the table, leaning perfect arms on the surface and clasping his hands there and meeting his eyes for the first time since handing over that phone.

“Prompto,” he said, even and measured. The same way a teacher did when handing back a failed test, knowing he wouldn’t get it signed, knowing another detention was in the future.

He should’ve kept his stupid fucking mouth shut.

“I will tell you anything you want to know about me, if you will … return the favor.”

_What?_

Prompto blinked. Blinked again. No, he wasn’t dreaming. This was really happening. Ignis wanted to know about … him? What was there to know that he couldn’t dig up himself? Was he angry _now?_ Was he looking for a reason to put a wedge between him and Noct?

“Sure,” said his traitorous mouth that just didn’t know when to _shut up._

Ignis fixed him with sharp scrutiny. “Where are your parents?”

Ignis would ask that, because of course he would. Because they had ancestral trees that went back to the dawn of fucking time, and all he had was a little slip of paper that said “adopted” in big fuck-off letters across the top.

Prompto squirmed and sat up, pulling his feet up to sit on them. “They left,” he said simply, but it was never that simple, was it? “Dad left a couple years ago to find work. He was a tilesetter and there were a bunch of new houses and buildings being built up north so he left with his crew and foreman. He said he was only gonna be gone for a little while, but…” He bit his lip, looked at the grain on the table, and sighed.

“And your foster mother?”

That one was harder. Much harder. The ache wasn’t gone yet. He swallowed again, stared at the uneaten pasta. Looked anywhere but at Iggy. “She wanted a baby. Not a ‘fat shit with tattoos and an attitude problem’.” He rubbed his knuckles hard. “They argued a lot. Usually about money. He didn’t make enough and she wanted more. His entire family were all tilesetters and had been for a long time and he was proud of it and used to take me around and show me the buildings he worked on. Houses he helped build. But … they got into an argument again and she stormed out. She came back the next day, packed her shit, and left. She didn’t come back. He was served divorce papers a couple days later and … that was it.”

Prompto didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He couldn’t stand to see the disappointment and disapproval on Ignis’s face.

“How do you pay for your home?”

“Public assistance. The checks still come here, so I cash them at the gas station and use them to pay for everything. The house is still rented under dad’s name.”

A sigh. Deep and stressed. Prompto couldn’t stop himself from looking up now and found Ignis with his glasses off, held in his casted hand while long fingers rubbed his eyes, one more delicately than the other.

“Ask me something,” he said, and Prompto drew in a deep breath too. He thought he should ask something smart or quick or clever, but Prompto knew he was none of those things, so he asked the obvious.

“So what happened with … Og-gus-tus?”

“As you know, Gladio and I have been together for some time now,” Ignis said smoothly, replacing his glasses. His voice was even and professional, as if their exchange was nothing more than an interview. “We have been intimate during the course of our relationship as well. We don’t often display affection in public simply because we do not always have the opportunity, but someone somewhere took a photo of him kissing me and published it in a tabloid, along with an article about us. My uncle, Augustus, saw it and we got into an argument.”

Prompto didn’t bother trying to hide the face he made.

“So, because you got a photo of you kissing Gladio on the cover of a gossip mag, he beat you? What’s that gonna do? Unpublish the photo?”

Ignis smiled wryly. “ _Tried_ to beat me,” he corrected. “I’m not sure what he expected.”

“So how’d you break your arm and get that mark on your face?”

“Corporeal punishment is still practiced in Tenebrae, unfortunately. That is where our family is from. A switch is considered the lightest, so I assume that’s what was used on him. He hit my face when I stopped him from hitting my hands.”

Prompto scrunched his nose. “You know, my mom was a bitch but she never hit me. Like, ever.”

“Indeed, but your mother wasn’t from a noble house with a thousand-year image to uphold.” Ignis’s smile was still wry yet unamused. Prompto sighed under his stare. “I believe my wrist broke when he tried to shove me and we both fell. He had my arm at a strange angle when we hit the doorframe.” Ignis hesitated, then went on. “To be honest, Prompto, I don’t remember a great deal of what happened. I remember being angry at him and we were yelling, but I don’t remember much of what was said or done.”

“Yeah. I get it.” If Ignis could grin – even humorlessly – maybe he could too. Prompto tried it crossing his arms on the table. “Mom and dad fought a lot too. I don’t remember any of it. I just remember hiding in my room and wishing they’d stop.”

The grin didn’t work. Prompto suddenly realized he didn’t know what he expected it to do. Ignis was looking at him again, green eyes fixed on him behind perfectly clear glasses, and he looked … serious.

“Prompto—“

Prompto braced himself. Here it came, whatever ‘it’ was, it was coming hard and fast and coming from Ignis, it would be painful _and_ efficient, and he’d never be the same again.

“—you are _not_ a ‘fat shit with an attitude problem’ and I _loathe_ that anyone ever said that to you.”

Oh.

_Oh._

Prompto stared; Ignis stared back, serious and soft at the same time.

“You are one of the sweetest, purest people I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. Your empathy and compassion for others is unmatched, and you have persevered through a multitude of challenges that should have fallen you, yet here you are, alive and well and even reaching out to others in their time of need. The strength and depth of your heart is astounding.”

Prompto still stared. His mouth hung open, but he couldn’t find it in himself to close it, and Ignis’s gaze on him was steadfast. 

“You _are_ good, Prompto. Down to your very bones, you are good. I am glad you are friends with Noct and I truly believe that he is better for knowing you. Your smile lights up the room you stand in, but your presence alone lights Noct’s entire world.”

A familiar lump lodged and closed his throat. He felt it when he was angry, he felt it when he received another detention, he felt it when he had to cancel plans with Noct. He felt it on the days that everything was too loud and too much; he felt it during reprimands from the teachers; he felt it in when he thought too much about his foster parents. And now he felt it here, pinned under Ignis as the praise sank into his skin. The ache spread from his throat to his eyes and before he could stop it, his vision blurred.

Prompto rubbed his eyes and sniffed. His breath hitched and – gods damn it all, he was _crying_ again. Why did he have to ruin everything by _crying_ all the time? He buried his face in his hands and sniffed again around that throat-lump, swallowing hard like he could push it back into his stomach where he wouldn’t feel it and no one would ever find it. He sniffed again, but this time, it was a sob.

No one had ever given him such praise before. No one ever told him he was _good._ He never heard as much as _good enough_ , but there was Ignis – gourmet chef, accomplished Crownsguard, Noct’s caretaker and retainer and gods knew what other titles he had – telling him everything that he ever wanted to hear, but no one ever did.

Chair legs scraped on the floor. He was pulled to his feet a moment later, then guided _in_ and _close_ and Ignis pressed him against his chest as if something would take him away if he didn’t hold tight enough. Prompto felt the weight of the other’s head rest on top of his own, the familiar hollow of his cheek on his crown, but couldn’t bring himself to look. Gods, he couldn’t do _anything_ suddenly, nothing but cover his face and sob and sag and try to breathe through it all as Ignis hugged him and rubbed his back and made it all so much _worse—_

No one ever hugged him when he cried in the past. He never cried in front of Noct. Sometimes loneliness alone could make him cry. But there was Ignis, holding him and praising him, and acting as if holding someone while they cried for no good reason was as normal and routine as washing clothes or making the bed. As if they were still sitting and eating and talking. Like it was _normal_ to cry onto someone he desperately wanted to be friends with, and they would hold him in return without impatience, without guilt, without speaking, and replace it all with gentle hushes and pet his back and hair.

“Prompto,” whispered Ignis. Ever-patient, ever-gentle Ignis, who was always perfect and proper, who drove him and Noct anywhere they wanted any time of day, who cooked meals for them and tended to Noct’s every wish as if it were royal command, who looked after them and cleaned up after them and made sure they were always safe.

Ignis, who thought he was _good._

“Let me help you,” he said, voice smooth and silky – so much unlike his own. His good hand settled on the back of his blond head and long, fine fingers combed into his hair. “You have done so well on your own and I’m so proud of you, but it hurts to see you struggle. Let me help you, Prompto.”

Another deep, wet sob bubbled up from the bottom of his lungs and pushed out his throat and up into his mouth. Prompto couldn’t stop the whine that accompanied it, and he pulled his hands from his wet face and flung his arms around Ignis, pressing hard into his chest. His glasses hurt, so he simply flung them off in some random direction and hid again, dissolving until he was nothing more than wet sobs and hiccups. There were approximately three times in his life he’d cried like this. The first was when his mom left for the last time; the second when he realized his dad wasn’t coming back. And now, when Ignis said he was good, gave him praise, and said he was _proud._

Prompto hated crying.

But he just couldn’t _stop._

And when he finally did, it left behind a gaping hole that he didn’t know was there until the reservoir was empty, and quiet blanketed them both. He became embarrassingly aware of how wet Ignis’s shirt was when he lifted his cheek from it – swollen and equally wet – and he tried to breathe in, but it only came as a series of sharp hiccups.

“S-s-sorry,” he stammered, unwinding himself and trying to pull the pieces of himself back together, starting with his glasses. Prompto couldn’t remember which direction he flung them, but Ignis – all-knowing Ignis – was already bending down to pick them up.

“Quite all right,” he forgave with that eternal, perfect patience as he handed them back. Prompto slid them onto his face with another hiccup and the world was clearer through the lenses, but not through his tears. “It would appear you needed that.”

“Y-yeah.” Prompto dug his fingers into his eyes again, pressure countering the deep, stinging ache that crying always left him with. “I just… this… it… “

He felt Ignis hands settled on his shoulders again; one cupped and loose and following the curve of his shoulder with a thumb on his collar, the other stiff and encased in plastic, simply resting. He didn’t need to see him to know he was waiting.

“This wasn’t supposed to be about _me_ ,” Prompto finally hicced, dropping his hands from his face. “I’m supposed to make _you_ feel better. That’s why I invited you over, and I—“

“Succeeded,” Ignis cut in, his healthy hand now cupping his cheek and thumb smoothing wet freckles. “I was very lonely when you texted me, Prompto. The truth is I am surrounded by capable, competent people every waking moment of my life, but at that moment, I felt that there was no one to turn to or even talk to.”

Prompto sniffed under his hand. He swallowed, blinked. The second sting of tears was weaker and worse at the same time, but Ignis looked at him with gentility that was usually only reserved for Noct – or he _thought_ it was only ever for Noct. Ignis thumbed his cheek again, wiping away the single tear that escaped his eye and trekked down his cheek.

“Whuh—“ Prompto paused and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, then wiped his hand on his shirt. “What about Gladio? And Noct?”

“Gladio can be intense. He also gets angry easily and makes rash decisions.” Ignis continued wiping his face, growing bolder with each swipe over soft, freckled cheeks. “Noct can be needy as well. I love and adore him from the bottom of my heart and he is more empathetic and compassionate than he wants anyone to know, but he can barely comfort himself when he is upset.”

“Yeah.” The more Ignis touched him, the more he wiped away the remains of his outburst, the better he felt. He smiled, though it felt fragile. “Noct … Noct’s like that, isn’t he.” Then he giggled, weak and huffy and out of breath. “Gladio scared the shit out of me the first time I met him. He caught us at the arcade because Noct was skipping out again.”

“I remember.”

Now Ignis gathered him up in his arms again and guided him into another hug, trapping him against his chest with one hand in his hair and the other across his back. Prompto nudged his face away from the wet spot on his shirt and linked his hands at Ignis’s back, leaning hard against him.

“I guess when you put it that way…”

“Indeed. I love them, but they were not who I needed.”

Prompto stared in the room of his own home, framed by the arms around him. He thought … slowly. He _always_ thought slowly after crying, but now he was grateful for the slowness because it meant he could be more … careful. ‘Who’ he needed, Ignis said; not ‘what’.

He unlinked his hands and pressed them to other man’s back instead, rubbing slightly. Like Iggy did to him, like he saw him do to Noct. Like he did to Noct sometimes too.

“Hey Iggy?”

“Yes, Prompto.”

“Are we friends?”

Quiet followed. In it, Prompto realized he could hear the _lub-lub_ of Ignis’s heartbeat, buried beneath flesh and muscle and bone. Steady, strong, regular. Exactly three beats passed when Ignis finally spoke again, and Prompto absorbed himself in the reverb of his heart, lungs, and voice as sound and wind rushed through his chest.

“If we were not before, I would like to think we are now.”

“…me too.” Prompto squeezed him and filled his own lungs with a large, deep, stabilizing breath. “We should take that picture before they do something stupid. I don’t want my house leveled or windows broken.”

Ignis laughed, and _oh,_ that _sound_. Prompto suddenly couldn’t pull his ear from the other man’s chest just because he loved the sound of his breathing, his heartbeat, his speaking, and gods’ graves, no wonder Noct always wanted to lie down with his head on everyone’s chests if _this_ was what he heard. Then Ignis was squeezing him back and kissed the top of his head and Prompto sighed as _relief_ washed over him. Never had he ever felt such relief and bliss after crying that long that hard.

“Yes, we should. Wash your face and eat your lunch first. You hardly touched your food and it won’t do for you to be so red in our photo.”

“Okay.”

_Our_ photo. The word settled into Prompto’s heart, a dim but warm glow in his chest, and Ignis squeezed around his middle and kissed his hair again.

It took effort and willpower that Prompto didn’t think he had to break their embrace. He wanted to stand there forever and soak in everything _Ignis_ , but they just couldn’t. He washed his face and cleaned his glasses as instructed and finished the now-cold bowl of cheap mac and cheese, then opened the curtains to take the photo that Gladio and Noct demanded of them.

Prompto was careful of selfies and photos of himself to begin with; he was even more careful when they involved his friends. Now he had to be _extra_ careful and tilted his phone so they could plainly see his kitchen in the background with the dishes in the sink, and he touched Ignis’s chin and jaw to tilt his head into his blond hair, effectively concealing the red in his eye and all signs of the cut on his face and the red, blue, and purple that surrounded it. He stole admirations and glances of him too, taking in the aura of haughty pride that surrounded Ignis. Even with his head tilted down, half his face hidden, and a slight smile curling his lip, he was all ancestral pride, honor, and dignity.

Ignis was _perfect._

Prompto snapped the photo.

“Put it in the group text,” Ignis suggested.

“You got it, Igster.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **My Love** : Let’s go on a date, Igs.   
> **My Love** : I’ll take you to that Altissian place you like. We’ll go dancing too. Or a movie.  
>  **My Love** : Or we can stand on the bridge and make fun of people.  
>  **My Love** : Whatever you want.   
> **My Love** : I love you and I want you to be happy. Let’s talk about it in person. Okay?  
>  **My Love** : I promise I won’t flip my shit when I see you.  
>  **Ignis** : Swear to me that you won’t do anything stupid.  
>  **My Love** : Swear on my honor, I won’t do anything you or I consider stupid.


	7. Lux in Tenebris

**_Ignis sent an attachment._ **

**Regis:** Is that Prompto?

**Ignis:** Yes, Sire, it is.

**Regis:** So that’s where you’ve been!

**Ignis:** My apologies, Sire, I did not mean to worry you. I should have told you where I went sooner.

**Regis:** No worries, my boy, I’m just glad you’re safe and have someone to talk to. When do I get to meet him?

**Ignis:** I’m not sure. His living situation concerns me. His background check said he lived with his foster parents, but that isn’t the case. I wanted to ask for your guidance.

**Regis:** Of course, my boy, you may ask anything of me. Have you spoken to Noctis or Gladio yet?

**Ignis:** Yes, we’re texting now.

**Regis:** Wonderful, I’m very glad to hear that. Noctis has been worried sick. He kept complaining to me this morning that our resident makeup artist kept poking him in the eye while doing his eyeliner. I think he just misses you. :)

**Ignis:** That indeed sounds like Noct.

**Regis:** Speak with them and we will convene later to talk about Prompto. Don’t keep him to yourself too much. I want to meet the boy my son is in love with.

**Ignis:** Of course, Sire. Thank you for all of your help and guidance.

**Regis:** It is my pleasure, son. I’m so very proud of you and I look forward to seeing you again.

**_Ignis sent an attachment._ **

**My Love:** Are you okay???

**Ignis:** I’m fine. I’m with Prompto right now.

**My Love:** What the hell happened with Augustus? What’d he do to you?

**Ignis:** Calm yourself, Gladio. It’s nothing serious.

**My Love:** he hit you again, didn’t he?

**My Love:** iggy answer me

**My Love:** fucks sake Ignis

**My Love:** iggy

**My Love:** iggy

**My Love:** IGGY

**Ignis:** Calm down, Gladio, I was helping Prompto.

**Ignis:** Yes, he hit me, but for the last time.

**My Love:** What’s that mean??

**Ignis:** I mean that I hit him back. I’m not taking this anymore. I’m tired of trying to live up to his standards and

**Ignis:** Gods, I don’t know.

**Ignis:** I’m so tired, Gladio.

**Ignis:** I’m tired of trying to make something of nothing.

**Ignis:** It’s like he doesn’t care.

**Ignis:** I take that back, he’s never cared

**Ignis:** he’s only ever cared about a family image we have almost no association with

**Ignis:** all we have is the name

**Ignis:** i don’t even remember anyone in tenebrae

**Ignis:** and he’s obsessed with honor and all this other stuff for people we don’t even talk to and will never meet again

**Ignis:** i don’t understand him, gladio

**Ignis:** and i don’t think i ever will

**My Love:** Let’s go on a date, Igs.

**My Love:** I’ll take you to that Altissian place you like. We’ll go dancing too. Or a movie.

**My Love:** Or we can stand on the bridge and make fun of people.

**My Love:** Whatever you want.

**My Love:** I love you and I want you to be happy. Let’s talk about it in person. Okay?

**My Love:** I promise I won’t flip my shit when I see you.

**Ignis:** Swear to me that you won’t do anything stupid.

**My Love:** Swear on my honor, I won’t do anything you or I consider stupid.

**My Love:** You still there?

**Ignis:** Yes, sorry. I’m talking to Regis and Noct as well.

**Ignis:** let me get through tonight and i’ll text you tomorrow.

**Ignis:** I love you, too.

**Ignis:** I just need some time to feel like myself again.

**My Love:** Let me help, babe. I’m not anyone you gotta be pretend to be perfect for. I love you for you. All of you.

**My Love:** It doesn’t gotta be a date

**My Love:** I just wanna see you

**My Love:** And it kills me to know that you’re hiding

**Ignis:** I’m staying at Prompto’s again tonight, but I will call you.

**My Love:** Promise?

**Ignis:** I promise.

**My Love:** If you don’t, I’ll do something stupid.

**My Love:** Like put your uncle through a meat grinder

**Ignis:** oh, please.

**Ignis:** You’d have to throw the whole grinder away after contaminating it like that. And what would your father say?

**My Love:** I think he’d pat me on the head and say “good job, son”.

**Ignis:** ugh.

**Ignis:** I need to go. Keep your line open tonight.

**My Love:** Anything for you, babe. I love you.

**Ignis:** I love you too, Gladio.

**_Ignis sent an attachment._ **

**Highness:** IGGY ARE YOU OKAY

**Ignis:** I am fine, Highness, calm yourself. I’m with Prompto right now.

**Highness:** What happened?

**Ignis:** Augustus and I got into another argument.

**Highness:** he’s got a black eye and a bunch of bruises. was that u?

**Ignis:** I’m ashamed to say it was.

**Highness:** dad kicked him out of all of his meetings. like he actually like took him off the council and changed all the meeting times and all this other stuff to keep him out

**Ignis:** Forgive me, Noct, he did what? Why?

**Highness:** cause he’s pissed at him

**Highness:** iggy?

**Highness:** you still there

**Ignis:** I’m here, Noct, I’m just in shock.

**Ignis:** Why would Regis do that? Augustus is one of his best advisors.

**Highness:** cause he’s pissed at him

**Ignis:** But why remove him from the council? He’s invaluable.

**Highness:** iggy

**Highness:** ur one of the smartest people I know

**Highness:** you know why

**Ignis:** I don’t know what to say. I don’t understand. Augustus is one of his most valuable council members.

**Highness:** so how’s your arm?

**Ignis:** How do you know about that?

**Ignis:** Did Regis tell you?

**Ignis:** Please tell me you haven’t told Gladio.

**Highness:** dad had the report on his desk. i didn’t tell gladio anything

**Highness:** stop playing stupid iggy

**Highness:** dad loves you

**Highness:** he’s pissed that augustus hurt you

**Highness:** he’s pissed that he didn’t do anything about it

**Highness:** he’s pissed and doesn’t want to look at his stupid fucking face

**Highness:** and neither do i

**Ignis:** I’m sorry, Highness, please allow me a moment.

**Highness:** ok

**Highness:** so you’re at prom’s?

**Ignis:** I am. He’s next to me right now.

**Highness:** why’d you go there?

**Ignis:** He texted me in the middle of the night and asked if I wanted company. I didn’t know where else to go.

**Highness:** why not me?

**Ignis:** Because it was 2am, Highness.

**Highness:** ok fair

**Ignis:** He has been very kind to me and he is a very comforting presence. I understand why you’re so enamored with him.

**Highness:** what

**Highness:** am not

**Ignis:** Think what you will ;)

**Ignis:** I’m not sure when I’ll be able to resume duty, but would you like to do dinner Monday night?

**Highness:** plleeeaaasseeeee

**Ignis:** Would you like to order out or help make dinner?

**Highness:** idc as long as you’re here

**Ignis:** We’ll play by ear then.

**Highness:** hey iggy?

**Ignis:** Yes, Highness?

**Highness:** ilu

**Ignis:** I love you too, Noct. Monday night. I promise.

**Ignis:** By the way, have you heard of a game called Stardew Valley?

**Highness:** no, what’s that?

**_Ignis is typing a message…_ **

Prompto made dinner. It was more peasant fare, but Ignis didn’t mind; pancakes with maraschino cherries and syrup, dusted with powdered sugar with a side of scrambled eggs and thin-sliced bacon. Breakfast for dinner was something Ignis never thought he’d be able to do but he smiled at Prompto as Prompto smiled at him and they sat informally on the couch together to watch an animated show on the television as they ate; something about a mustached man with a wife, three strange, obnoxious children and a hamburger restaurant. Ignis recognized parts of it from Noct’s apartment when he would make dinner and Noct would watch TV in the background, idle and trusting at the same time. It offered comfortable familiarity, and when their plates were empty, Prompto left it all on the coffee table and snuggled up with Ignis with his head on his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. Ignis snuck his hand underneath the boy’s tie-dye shirt and rubbed his back; up to his shoulderblades, down to the dimples of his hips, from one side of his ribs to the other. He touched as much as he was allowed and when they parted, it was only because it was getting late and they needed to shower before bed.

Prompto went first despite his protests, but was placated when Ignis confessed he needed to call Gladio, and call Gladio he did. He picked up on the first ring and Ignis pretended not to feel relief wash over him at the sound of his deep, gravelly voice. Despite the weekend events, Gladio was cool and calm and content to just … talk.

It felt like he was on the phone for hours.

It felt like the world inside him ended.

It felt like Gladio reached through the speaker, into his mouth, down his throat, into his chest, and picked up all the little broken pieces inside of him and snapped them all back together.

It felt like nothing with Gladio ever changed.

They talked about Noctis and Regis. They talked about Clarus. They talked about Iris and her kitchen experiments. They talked about Monica, who would likely become Iris’s sponsor once she was of age to join the Crownsguard. They talked about the Citadel, and a little about work, then Gladio hard-turned the conversation back to Noctis and bragged about how much he’d managed to step up and get his shit together in a matter of hours but still bitched and moaned when a makeup artist had to do his nails and eyeliner for a public appearance and the artist bitched and moaned about how “the godsdamned brat prince won’t sit still” – and how _floored_ they were when they realized that Gladio was _right there_ and overheard that. The look on their face was funnier than anything else, and Gladio laughed as he told the story and Ignis found that he was starting to laugh too. Nothing happened to the artist in the end because it _was_ a valid complaint and Regis, grinning, told Noct to stop giving the artists so much grief while doing their jobs and everything else went smoothly at the event.

Gladio was staying with Noct some nights. Tonight was one of those nights, but Noct asked that he come late, because he wanted time alone after having cameras and people on him all day. He was also spending a lot of time with his father, and Gladio said that Regis said sometimes Noct wouldn’t shut up about Prompto. Gladio laughed at that too, and Ignis felt two large pieces of his heart snap back together.

When they finally hung up, it was because he needed to start packing up to go to Noct’s, and Ignis realized the noise from the shower had stopped some time ago. When Prompto appeared, he was half-dry with his glasses on and wearing pajama pants, and tossed a fresh towel to him with two flat packages wrapped inside it. When Ignis opened the towel, he could’ve kissed the boy on the spot: Prompto lived on public assistance and skillfully stretched every crown as far as it would go, yet spent a decent amount of that limited income to buy him soft cotton pajamas and a three-pack of tonberry print boxers.

“You sweet soul,” Ignis cooed into his sunny gold hair as he squashed Prompto into a tight hug, and Prompto clung back like he never wanted to be let go.

“Anytime, Igster,” Prompto returned, beaming like the sun. He truly was too sweet, too caring, too pure, too _vulnerable_ to be left alone or neglected like this. They stood in the front room like that for a while – Ignis’s hollow cheek rested on the top of his head, Prompto’s face crushed into his chest, and their arms wound around each other. When they finally broke apart, it was because of Prompto prodding him to go take a shower so they could go to bed.

There was a suspicious amount of hot water left in the shower, but Ignis made a point of keeping it short and tepid anyway. Gladio and Noct both accused him more than once of trying to melt off his own flesh so the ‘tepid’ part might be his own opinion, but in the end, the result was the same. Ignis scrubbed the last few days from his skin and washed the stress from his face and hair, then cranked the heat up on the shower and stood with his face directly in its spray to inhale the wet heat. The steam cleared the inside of his head just as the water cleared the outside and when he stepped out to towel dry himself, his skin was steaming slightly too. He dressed in the soft cotton pajamas Prompto gifted him, folded his old clothing to do _something_ with them later, treated and patched over the cut on his cheek, and stepped out of the small bathroom.

In the time that he showered, Prompto went around his little house cleaning; he scooped up all of their dishes and put them in the dishwasher and bundled up on the couch in the same colorful blanket with Stardew Valley waiting on the TV screen. As Ignis came around the corner, Prompto beamed and opened the blanket to invite him onto the couch—

\--and when he woke up again, it was well after midnight and Prompto was a solid, warm weight on his chest. They’d played a new game from the very beginning and Ignis directed while Prompto explained what everything was and did until their eyes ached. Ignis didn’t know who flagged first, but he remembered saying he was going to rest his eyes for ‘just a moment’ with a yawn. Now Prompto was asleep too, controller in hand, and the total of their daily bounty displayed on the TV. Ignis extracted the black controller and set it on the coffee table, turned off the television, readjusted the blanket, readjusted Prompto, lay his hands on the boy’s back, and closed his eyes for the final time that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When he finally laid his hand in Gladio’s, it was not a hand; hard, warm plastic rested on his palm instead. He thumbed at it, blinking, frowning, and felt up and down the hard case. No, there was flesh there in between round … bubbles? Openings?
> 
> What the hell? 
> 
> “Uh. Igs?”
> 
> “Gladio.”
> 
> “What’s that?”


End file.
